


Ink Your Name Across My Heart

by prettyvk



Series: Ink Your Name 'verse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, M/M, Post The Reichenbach Fall, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2018-01-03 15:12:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 58,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1071940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettyvk/pseuds/prettyvk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The metaphor is imperfect but still workable. If my long term memory is a hard drive, then my short term memory is RAM. The hard drive became read-only following the illness. New data is stored in RAM and can be used while I remain awake. Going to sleep – ‘turning off’ – wipes the RAM, returning the system to what it was prior to the illness.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. November 15th - Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> Korean translation from trainedfreedom at <http://5nqz23c.tistory.com/26>
> 
> Italian translation from di_opheliac at [http://www.efpfanfic.net/viewstory.php?sid=2482836&i=1](http://www.efpfanfic.net/viewstory.php?sid=2482836&i=1)
> 
> Russian translation from Forlex at [http://ficbook.net/readfic/1851711 ](http://ficbook.net/readfic/1851711)
> 
> Chinese translation from Karoliner at <http://www.movietvslash.com/thread-111466-1-1.html>

Sherlock wakes up in the middle of a heart attack.

Or at least, that’s what it feels like, his chest constricted, his body uncomfortably warm.

It is not, as such, an unfamiliar feeling. During his years of indulgence in cocaine, he actually felt this way a handful of times. Twice, he ended up knocking on death’s door, though he didn’t actually pass the threshold. That was how Mycroft described it in a rare use of metaphors that has somehow resisted all attempts at deleting.

Sherlock’s memory is a strange thing. He can recall that metaphor, he can recall his previous overdoses, but he absolutely cannot recall the high that must have caused the overwhelming tightness in his chest.

Although…

As his grip on consciousness firms up, he opens his eyes to find himself in his bed – he doesn’t remember getting in it – and with a possessive arm thrown across his chest. The owner of that arm, rather unexpectedly, is John. When and why John climbed into Sherlock’s bed, Sherlock cannot fathom. 

Why they both appear to be nude is just as much of a mystery.

Sherlock isn’t opposed to those developments per se, but they are rather startling when he has no recollection of what led to this. And that lack of data, as much as the tightness of John’s arm, quickly becomes too much to bear.

Pulling away, he sits on the edge of the bed, his feet firmly on the floor but his mind still unsteady. A quick look at the clock tells him it’s almost seven in the morning. His last memory is of lying on the sofa in the early afternoon with a headache severe enough that John was concerned. Clearly things have happened since then. One of those things was sexual in nature, judging from a trace of discomfort so minimal Sherlock wouldn’t have noticed it if he wasn’t taking stock of his body. It explains why he and John are naked in bed, but by god how did they get from friends to lovers in just a few hours?

“Bathroom,” John mumbles behind him, and the word feels like an electric shock. Sherlock nearly jumps to his feet.

“What?” he asks despite his suddenly dry throat

John’s eyes are still closed, but he responds readily after a wide yawn.

“Go into the bathroom. Look at your arm. Then at your chest in the mirror. Then come back to bed ‘cause it’s too bloody early to be up.”

He’s not making any sense, and Sherlock is about to say so when he sees something on the inside of his left arm. With only the glow of the alarm clock for light, he can’t make out more than a large stain, dark on his pale skin. Frowning, he stands and goes into the bathroom. He has to blink a few times against the suddenly bright lights, but soon he looks down at his arm and sees that the stain is a tattoo.

His first thought is that this is appalling. Of all the ridiculous things to do to his body…

His second thought is that the tattoo is healed. There’s no redness, no swelling. It’s been there for a while. But how can that be? He didn’t have a tattoo earlier today.

The next thing he notices is that this is his handwriting. He couldn’t not recognize it. It is as distinct to him as his own face. Which means he must have written the words and given them to a tattoo artist to ink exactly as they were.

The last thing he takes in is the words themselves. Or maybe he did read them first and shove their meaning back, too unsettled to consider them right away. But he can’t ignore them. Not when they are the beginning of an explanation as to what is going on.

The tattoo on his arm says: _I was diagnosed with anterograde amnesia._

He runs a finger over the words at the same time as he accesses the medical library in his mind palace. The library is exactly where it should be, as is everything else he can see, but there’s _something_ out of place, nothing he can quite identify and yet the feeling of wrongness is like a pinprick right at the base of his skull, where he feels much too vulnerable. He ignores the feeling the best he can and finds a definition for anterograde amnesia. He knows already what it is, but he needs the words, needs to contain this, to make it data rather than fear. He needs, also, to make sure it’s only anterograde amnesia, and not more than that.

_Anterograde amnesia is a loss of the ability to create new memories after the event that caused the amnesia, leading to a partial or complete inability to recall the recent past, while long-term memories from before the event remain intact._

His recall of that medical text is perfect, he’s relieved to realize. Closing the door of the library, he transports himself to the veranda and picks a plant at random. Abrus precatorius. He lists for himself the symptoms of poisoning, already moving on to a different room while the information still filters through his conscious mind.

Five more rooms in his mind palace. Five more random pieces of data. It’s hardly proof of anything, but it does tend to indicate that his long term memory is intact. His breathing calms down a little.

_I was diagnosed with anterograde amnesia._

His message to himself, since that’s clearly what it is, appears to be accurate.

Remembering what John said – how long ago was that? At least five minutes. Some people with anterograde amnesia forget events practically as soon as they happen, but Sherlock can remember waking up with John’s arm around him, can remember what he said. How long until he forgets? – Sherlock glances down at his chest. There’s another tattoo there, but the letters are reversed.

He steps in front of the mirror and peers in. It’s his handwriting again. Three lines of text. The last one appears to be newer than the other two, the edges still slightly raised and a little red. Without thinking, he touches John’s name. His breathing returns completely to normal.

He commits the words to memory, stashing them in the music room in his mind palace, each line of text represented by one page of sheet music on top of the grand piano; silly, really, if the diagnosis is correct, but that’s what he has done with important information for more than half his life and he can’t just stop now. Then he takes a good look at himself, seeking more tattoos, more messages. He finds nothing. Next, he touches his skull with his fingertips, examining every inch, seeking scars or depressions. Nothing either. 

Feeling cold from standing naked in the bathroom for so long, he steps into the shower and shivers under the cold spray for a few seconds before the water warms up. He just stands there, head bowed, sifting through his memories again.

The first cause of amnesia is traumatic brain injury, but he hasn’t found any evidence that anything happened to him. Shock or a strong emotional disturbance can also be to blame, but Sherlock refuses to think he’d let emotions wreak havoc on his brain; not anymore. A far less common cause for anterograde amnesia, although not unheard of, is encephalitis. 

And the last thing he remembers with some clarity is that headache. He had a fever, too, he thinks.

Getting out of the shower, he towels himself dry and pulls on the robe hanging behind the door. He strides back into the bedroom and turns on the lights before approaching the bed. John makes a noise of protest and draws a pillow over his head.

“John,” Sherlock says sharply. “Did I have encephalitis? Is that how it happened? When was it?”

But John doesn’t answer.

Sherlock tugs the pillow off his head and takes hold of his shoulder, barely noticing the scar under his fingers as he pulls and rolls John onto his back.

“John. Wake up. I need you to tell me…”

Sherlock forgets what he was about to ask when he sees the three lines of text on John’s chest, an answer to the ones on his own. They’re not inversed. Not meant to be read in a mirror. Meant for Sherlock.

The first two are tattooed in a typewriter-style font. The last one is slightly smudged. Permanent marker rather than tattoo. John’s hand. They say:

_I do._  
 _You did._  
 _I won’t._

Sherlock’s hand falls away from John’s shoulder and he touches those simple declarations instead. One of John’s hands comes up and cover his, pressing it tight over his heart.

“You’ve got questions,” John says in a tired voice, his eyes narrowed against the light, “but we’ve had three hours of sleep and that’s not nearly enough for me to function. Your diary’s on the sofa. Let me have a couple more hours before we have that talk again, all right?”

Sherlock nods numbly. He tries to pull his hand back but John holds on to it and leads it to his mouth. He presses a kiss into the center of Sherlock’s palm before releasing him. The touch is both foreign and strangely familiar, and it makes Sherlock want to get back into bed, makes him want to ask questions that have little to do with amnesia. He doesn’t, and instead picks up the pajama pants on the floor and leaves the room, turning off the lights again and almost tripping over his own feet when John mumbles, “Ta, love.”

He can’t remember anyone calling him that with quite that meaning. He never imagined how nice it’d be.

The diary John mentioned is a blue notebook, unremarkable except for the words written in large letters on the cover. Sherlock’s hand, again. _Read me_.

Sherlock sits down and opens the notebook to the first page. The first sentence answers the very questions he asked John.

_I was diagnosed with acute encephalitis on June 2nd._

He keeps reading about the hospital, the treatment, but gets distracted by a note in the margin. It’s still his handwriting, but the ink is blue rather than black.

_DO NOT discuss illness with John. He experiences residual guilt for not identifying the illness sooner and blames himself for the outcome. 29/6_

Another margin note a few lines lower says, _Tried to point out it’s not his fault. Poorly received. 20/7_

And lower still, _Attempted again. John still unreasonable. 14/8_

All in all, the notes in the margins tell Sherlock as much as the diary itself. His illness, treatment and recovery take two pages and seven notes. Then there’s a brief explanation of when he can expect to lose his short term memory.

_The metaphor is imperfect but still workable. If my long term memory is a hard drive, then my short term memory is RAM. The hard drive became read-only following the illness. New data is stored in RAM and can be used while I remain awake. Going to sleep – ‘turning off’ – wipes the RAM, returning the system to what it was prior to the illness._

A margin note indicates that Sherlock has gone as long as nine days without sleep in August. Another note warns that John threatened to forcibly sedate him if he ever tries to stay awake longer than three days. The next note announces negotiations were made and when an important case is going on, John will allow up to five days provided that he is allowed to monitor Sherlock’s vitals and told of any hallucination or paranoia symptoms as soon as they occur.

Another page is about music, and how Sherlock has composed three pieces since the illness, one of which over a span of several weeks. That is a surprisingly soothing piece of information, even if Sherlock can’t remember any of these compositions.

The next few pages talk about how the people in Sherlock’s life are reacting to his condition and limitations, with advice as to what to say or not say in order to minimize tedious moments of sentimentality.

After that, the notebook is more like the diary John called it, describing cases and their resolutions, Sherlock skims through a few of them before flipping further back into the notebook. Many blank pages still wait to be filled, but there is one set of data glaringly missing. Other than margin notes, there isn’t anything in the notebook about John, and certainly nothing to explain his presence in Sherlock’s bed, the tattoos on Sherlock’s chest, or the ones on John’s. There must be a reason for that lack of information. A good one, since Sherlock has been continuously adding to the diary. The last case is dated November 14th. Spying his phone on the table, Sherlock goes to pick it up and checks the date. 

November 15th.

He wrote that last entry mere hours ago, it seems. And yet, when he goes back to it, nothing whatsoever comes to mind as he reads intently his own descriptions of the crime scene or murder victims. It’s like he’s reading a novel – and, exactly as if he were reading a novel, he guesses the identity of the culprits long before the end. For a moment, he wonders if he remembered the solution – but no, he just deduced it. It was all that easier for the fact that he only recorded the pertinent clues, without the red herrings a novelist might have inserted as attempts to distract the readers.

Lying down on the sofa, he rests the notebook on his chest and takes a closer look at his phone. An icon on the main screen is labeled ‘VATICAN CAMEOS’. Opening it reveals a short message.

_IMPORTANT. If you just woke up and John isn’t with you, call him immediately. If he doesn’t answer at once, call Mycroft. Don’t text. CALL.  
SH_

Closing the file, Sherlock looks at his text messages. They look normal enough. His conversations with Lestrade are all about cases. The ones with Mycroft are as biting and childish as ever – thank god. His messages to John are infrequent, and Sherlock guesses that’s because, more often than not, John is with him. Scrolling back, he finds three instances in which he sent John a single word. Twice, it’s ‘Hallucinations’. Once, ‘Sleepy’. Every time, John’s answer is immediate. ‘On my way,’ or ‘Wait for me.’

Setting the phone and notebook aside, Sherlock steeples his fingers under his chin and tries to relax before accessing his mind palace. Earlier in the bathroom he did a quick check, taking shortcuts. Now, he approaches from the outside and mentally walks up to the front steps, checking that each and every mental cue is where it belongs.

The three pieces of paper he set on the piano earlier are still there, still easily legible. Reaching for his phone again, he creates a new note for himself.

_15/11. Left three pieces of sheet music on the piano in MP. Are they still there?_

Putting the phone away, he closes his eyes again and returns to the music room. One room after the other, he tours his palace, takes inventory, vaguely aware after some time has passed that there is noise in the flat. 

Water running. Steps. Kettle. Porcelain on wood. All of it is so familiar, it doesn’t draw him out of his mind. John’s voice, on the other hand, does. Or maybe it’s not so much his voice as the fingers gently running through Sherlock’s hair.

“Tea or coffee?”

“Busy,” Sherlock replies, tilting his head out of John’s reach. “I’m—”

“Checking your mind palace, yes,” John says with a small sigh. “Would you believe me if I said you’re not going to find anything out of place?”

Unvoiced is the corollary. _You never do._

Part of Sherlock wants to object that he won’t know for sure until he does it. But that’s the point John is making, isn’t it? Sherlock _has_ done this before. Probably repeatedly, since it was his first instinct. The result is unlikely to be any different now than previously, and if he’d found something wrong then John would surely know.

“Coffee,” he says, opening his eyes to look at John.

He’s wrapped in his terrycloth robe, the front drawn tightly over his chest. Sherlock wishes he could see the words on his skin again.

With a small smile, John nods and returns to the kitchen. He comes back with two mugs. Sherlock sits up to take his, and watches, slightly bemused, as John sits at the other end of the sofa, briefly lifting Sherlock’s feet to reposition them on his lap. His fingers remain curled on Sherlock’s right ankle, as possessive as his arm when Sherlock woke up.

After taking a sip of coffee, John says, “Go ahead. I know you’ve got questions and it always annoys you when I answer before you ask.”

He’s looking straight ahead of him rather than at Sherlock. Why? Not something he’ll ask, but definitely to ponder.

“Why is there nothing about you in my diary?”

John nods as though he expected the question. 

“My request. I don’t think you ought to learn about us from words on a page. I’d rather tell you myself.”

Us. The word rolls easily on John’s tongue. Why it makes Sherlock’s insides feel like they’re dancing a jig is another question that will remain unvoiced.

“How long have we been ‘us’?” he asks instead.

A small smile curls John’s mouth. He hides it in his mug before answering.

“September fifth.”

Thinking back of what he read in the notebook, Sherlock makes two connections. That was the day a murder case was solved. Also the day when he noted John would allow up to five days of wakefulness. How these things are all linked, however, he cannot guess.

“Is that when…” He doesn’t know how to voice it. He does not care much for grand declarations as a rule, but something within him aches at the thought that those words were said and he can’t recall the moment. Absently, he touches his chest and the words inked there. The movement draws John’s eyes to him.

“That’s when I said it, yes,” John says quietly, but not so quietly that Sherlock can’t hear the hitch in his voice.

Sherlock absolutely loathes that he needs to ask. “And what happened?”

John’s expression takes an amused turn. “What happened was that you ran out. You were gone for three hours. Scared the hell out of me. I had to call Mycroft to ask him to track you down. In the end you came back before he found you. And you had this—” Letting go of Sherlock’s ankle, he reaches out and traces two fingers along the first two lines on Sherlock’s skin. “—on your chest. You said you wanted it there because that was data as important as your diagnosis and something you should never question.”

Still shivering from John’s brief touch, Sherlock looks down at the words. The explanation sounds like something Sherlock would say; something he can easily believe.

“So… you said… you said this. And I ran out right away? So I didn’t actually say it back?”

John smiles a little more widely. “It didn’t occur to you at the time that I might actually want to hear it rather than watch you run away. You berk.”

How many times has John recalled this story? Does he always end it by calling Sherlock ‘berk’? It’s frustrating not to know. It’s also frustrating not to know what his voice sound like when he says it, or the way his lips curl around the words, or whether his eyes tighten a little at the corners, the way they always did when he talked about—

“What about Mary?” 

He regrets the question as soon as it passes his lips – as soon as John’s smile fades into a pained expression. Waiting for John to answer, Sherlock makes a mental note. Before he goes to sleep, he needs to write in the diary.

_Do not bring up Mary._

“We split up,” John says quietly, now staring into his coffee mug. “We were already shaky, and then…” 

In his tense shrug, Sherlock reads a word. Illness. He’s the reason ‘shaky’ turned into ‘over’. He feels like maybe an apology would be warranted, but it’d also be disingenuous. He never liked Mary, never liked how little time her mere existence left for his friendship with John – and he’s fairly certain the dislike was mutual. John forgave him for faking his death – although it took time – but Mary always found a reason to bring it up again.

“I’d like to hear you say the words,” Sherlock says abruptly, sitting upright and folding his legs in front of him. “I can’t imagine what they sound like in your voice and it’s annoying.”

John’s smile returns, a little crooked, a little softer than before. He turns sideways on the sofa, one foot still on the floor, the other folded under him as he faces Sherlock fully.

“Nope. That’s not how it works. I learned my lesson. You only get to hear it if you say it first.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen in outrage. “Are you blackmailing me?”

John chuckles. “Is it blackmail when you have the truth tattooed across your chest?”

Glancing down at his chest again, Sherlock touches the second line, running his fingers along the words from left to right as he says them.

“I told John I love him.” His cheeks feel awfully warm when he looks up and meets John’s eyes. “I’ve never… never told anyone that.”

He never wanted to, not until John, but even then he missed his chance to say it – or at least, he thought he had.

John takes the mug from Sherlock’s hands, and sets it and his own on the floor. Then, he shifts a little closer, and slides a hand to the back of Sherlock’s neck. It feels oddly familiar. Comfortable.

“You’ve said it plenty of times,” John says. “Heard it just as often. But because you’re a lucky bastard, you get to hear it again like it’s brand new. Ready?”

Sherlock’s throat tightens and he nods. John leans a little closer still, until he can murmur right against Sherlock’s lips.

“I love you.”


	2. June 2nd - John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An unnecessary disclaimer - from the little i've seen of Mary in ACD's canon or the BBC trailers, i have nothing whatsoever against the character, let alone the actress who portrays her.
> 
> A quite necessary note - i'm very thankful for the lovely comments you guys have been kind enough to send my way so far. I hope you'll keep enjoying.
> 
> A maybe necessary explanation - chapters will alternate between Sherlock and John, with Sherlock's timeline going backwards and John's forward. Confused yet? It'll make sense eventually, i promise.

“You are a complete arsehole,” John said as he stormed into the flat. “Do you even realize that? Is that something you can comprehend?”

It took him no time to find Sherlock, sprawled on the sofa in his pajamas and dressing gown, an arm curled over his face like a swooning regency heroine.

“I don’t know if I comprehend,” Sherlock said, his voice muffled by his elbow, “but I’ve been told often enough. What did I do this time?”

“What did—”

John bit back a curse and stood by the sofa. His glaring was completely lost on Sherlock, who still hid behind his arm.

“You know bloody well what you did!” he exploded. “You’ve been hounding me to meet for lunch for a week. I took today off especially for that—”

 _Had a row with my wife about it when I told her,_ but that part he only said in his mind.

“—I waited for you for an hour before ordering with Angelo giving me the stink eye the entire time because he’s still convinced I dumped you and you can’t be bothered to tell him we’ve always been just friends. And the entire time you’re just here, lounging in your robe like…”

An awful suspicion rose inside John. Taking hold of Sherlock’s wrist, he pushed the sleeve up, exposing the inside of his arm. Nothing there, not even a nicotine patch.

“Let go,” Sherlock protested, trying to tug his arm free, but John wasn’t done.

Leaning in close, he sniffed Sherlock’s breath. No alcohol. Unless…

“Hungover?” he asked, too annoyed to even make it a proper question.

Sherlock gave another weak tug on his arm and John finally let go, watching him cover his face again.

“I wish,” Sherlock muttered. “It’d mean there was at least something pleasant before this. To the risk of being boring I’m sober in every sense of the word. Just have the most dreadful headache.”

John was trying to hold on to his annoyance – if Sherlock wasn’t feeling well he could at least have texted him! – but Sherlock surprised him by peeking from under his arm and mumbling, “Sorry about lunch. If I’d realized it was so late I’d have told you I wasn’t up for it.”

His eyes were bloodshot, his pupils contracted. Headache severe enough that he wasn’t even whining. What else?

“Do you have a fever?” John asked, reaching past Sherlock’s arm to press his hand to his forehead. “Pain anywhere else? Did you take anything for it?”

“Fever, yes. No pain. Out of paracetamol.”

He shifted his head into John’s hand, maximizing contact. He definitely felt too warm, and not just because John’s hand was cool. And of course he was out. Still couldn’t be bothered to do his own shopping, probably. Mrs. Hudson was a saint to bring at least some food in the flat, but she couldn’t divine what else he might need.

“Right,” John said wryly, pulling his hand free. “I’m going to downgrade you from complete arsehole to big baby who can’t take care of a little headache. And you owe me lunch when you’re better.”

Sherlock mumbled something, but John, on his way to the bathroom, did not understand.

“What did you say?” he called out as he ran a flannel under cold water before wringing out the excess.

“Said it’s a big headache,” Sherlock said, slurring the words a little.

“Of course it is. Drop your arm. There you go. Does that feel nice?”

His forehead and eyes covered by the cool flannel, Sherlock hummed something that might have been a thank you.

John thought about dropping down to 221A to see if Mrs. Hudson had anything for headaches, but that wouldn’t help Sherlock next time. And it wasn’t like John had anything better to do this afternoon.

“I’ll go get you some paracetamol,” he said, squeezing Sherlock’s shoulder once. “I won’t be long, all right?”

Sherlock made a vaguely affirmative noise.

As he left the flat and started down the street, a little voice that sounded awfully like Mary’s whispered in John’s ear.

_He’s taking advantage of you. Like he always does._

But Sherlock hadn’t asked for anything, John replied to that little voice. In fact, he hadn’t asked John for his usual favors or even for backup on a case since Mary had confronted him about taking advantage of John three weeks earlier. Sherlock had stormed off, then, and they hadn’t talked until he’d asked to meet over lunch. He’d said he had something to tell John. 

John knew better than to expect an apology. He’d barely gotten one when Sherlock had returned from the dead, and only after a shouting match at that. Still, he’d vaguely hoped for an acknowledgment from Sherlock that yes, he’d been overly needy in the past few months. A promise to respect boundaries – such as an end to texting in the middle of the night for non-urgent matters – would have been nice, too. 

Needy was John’s word. Mary called Sherlock’s behavior obnoxious. She couldn’t understand why John tolerated it from Sherlock when he’d have called anyone else on it. He’d tried to explain that he was Sherlock’s only friend – and that Sherlock was his best friend. She’d glared daggers at him. 

As familiar as Sherlock’s behavior was, Mary’s response had taken John by surprise. She’d never shown that kind of possessiveness before Sherlock had popped back into John’s life. Sherlock had said to ask her about her first husband, that it’d explain everything. John had managed to hide from Sherlock that he hadn’t known she’d been married before. He had yet to ask Mary if it was true. How likely was it that Sherlock was wrong, really?

The chemist wasn’t far. In ten minutes, John was there and back. Coming back into the flat, John hung his jacket and stepped into the kitchen. He popped a pill from the bottle, filled a glass with cold water, and took both to Sherlock, who apparently hadn’t moved since John had left.

“Hey. I’m back. Sit up for a bit.”

He had to shake Sherlock’s shoulder before his body jerked, the flannel sliding off his face. He blinked repeatedly, frowning up at John.

“John?” he said drowsily. “What are you doing here?”

“Got you medicine like I said. Sit up.”

Sherlock did sit up, and he took the glass and pill John was handing him, but he sounded – and looked – downright confused. “Like you said? What? When?”

John frowned. “When I was here earlier. Don’t you remember? I called you an arsehole and a big baby?”

Sherlock was beyond confused, now, and well into mystified territory. “I must have deleted that. Not sure why, though. God but my—”

His body froze, his mouth becoming slack, the empty glass sliding from his grasp and onto the cushion next to him.

“Sherlock?” John’s eyes widened. He had to fight his instinct to shake Sherlock by the shoulders, and took hold of his wrist instead. He took his pulse while leaning in close enough to watch his pupils; they weren’t dilated to the same degree. “Sherlock! Can you hear me?”

“—head hurts,” Sherlock said, blinking once, then again when he realized how close John was. “What… John?”

“You just had an absence seizure,” John said, releasing his wrist so he could get his phone out. “You’re going to the hospital. Don’t you even _think_ about arguing with me.”

The fact that Sherlock did not try to argue at all only added to John’s worry. Sherlock hated being in a hospital as a patient and would do or say anything to avoid that situation. His passivity now was disturbing.

John managed to get a ride in the ambulance by claiming he was Sherlock’s personal physician, but the doctors at the hospital were considerably less accommodating. They listened to John’s description of Sherlock’s symptoms and took in consideration his diagnosis of possible encephalitis, but upon confirming that he was not related to Sherlock they firmly sent him to the waiting room and refused to give him updates on what tests they were performing. MRI, probably. Maybe a CT scan. Lumbar puncture.

They were only following protocol, John knew that and he would have done the same in their place, but he still felt absolutely no remorse in giving a call to the one person he knew who could cut through red tape with a wave of his umbrella.

“Sherlock’s in the hospital,” he said without preamble when Mycroft picked up the call. “I’m guessing encephalitis but no one will tell me anything because I’m not _family_.” He spit the word as though it tasted foul.

“That’s… serious, isn’t it?” Mycroft asked after a short pause.

“It can be when it’s not treated quickly enough. I’m not sure how long he sat on his sofa with that headache. He might still be there if I hadn’t come by.”

He didn’t add the last of it, the part that made the acid in his stomach roil and burn his throat. _He might have been in the hospital faster if I hadn’t been too annoyed to think like a proper doctor._

“Are you coming in?” he said instead.

“I’m afraid I can’t at the moment. I’m not in London. But I’ll send someone to sort things out. Where are you exactly?”

Seventeen minutes later, Anthea, or whatever she called herself today, breezed in. She didn’t so much as acknowledge John, but he heard her demand to talk to the person in charge. When a gray-haired doctor asked her how he could help, she asked him to accompany her to his direct supervisor. John had long since given up on being surprised at the way Mycroft and his people operated.

Whatever she had to say didn’t take long. Five minutes later, she was walking back through the same corridor again, typing on her Blackberry. She paused ever so briefly by John and did not look at him as she said, “You’re in charge of medical decisions regarding Sherlock until Mycroft comes back. That should be tomorrow night, unless he has to deal with a war. He wants you to call him if anything changes.”

And with that, she was gone.

Moments later, John saw the gray-haired doctor – Dr. Levinson, his name badge said – give directions for Sherlock to be transferred to a different room. He was asleep, or more probably sedated, and much too pale against the starched sheets. When John followed, no one stopped him, and when he asked for an update, he actually received answers. They were still waiting for final results to come back, although Sherlock had been given a first dose of medication. Waiting too long could prove critical. It was as John had supposed, but it felt different to know rather than guess.

He sat in Sherlock’s room, rewinding the afternoon in his mind, playing the what if game. It wouldn’t help anything, of course, but he had to wonder. What if he hadn’t waited so long at Angelo’s? What if he had simply left when it had become clear Sherlock wouldn’t show up rather than actually having lunch? What if he hadn’t let his annoyance blind him and had realized sooner that this might be more serious than a simple headache?

Logically, he knew he’d acted as fast as he could in the circumstances. But this wasn’t a logical situation, this wasn’t the surgery and patients he’d never seen before. This was Sherlock.

When his phone rang, he felt a stab of guilt that he’d forgotten to turn it off despite the signs. At first he thought it’d be Mycroft, but when he saw it was Mary he slipped out and went to the waiting room to take the call. 

“Where are you?” she asked as soon as he picked up. “Our appointment is in ten minutes.”

 _Shit_.

Covering his face with one hand, he braced himself for the fight he knew was coming.

“Love, I’m sorry, I won’t be able to make it. I’m at the hospital.” He paused ever so briefly and his voice was a little quieter when he said, “Sherlock is ill.”

Absolute silence answered him.

“We’re still waiting for the tests to come back,” he said, “but we’re pretty sure it’s encephalitis.”

“We?” Mary said coolly. “Who’s we? Surely you’re not his doctor.”

“No, but—”

“Then let his doctors do their job. What hospital are you in? Saint Bart? If I come pick you up we might only be a little late for the appointment.”

John couldn’t think of anything he wanted to do less at that moment than go talk about the state of his marriage to a soft-spoken woman at least fifteen years younger than he was and who, he suspected, had never been in a long-term relationship herself.

“I can’t,” he said, his voice firming up as he clenched his fist at his side. “We’ll have to reschedule.”

“John—”

“He could die, okay? Or he could get brain damage.” He knew which of these two outcomes Sherlock would have thought was worse.

“You watched him die once,” she snapped. “Wasn’t that enough?”

John sucked in a breath and resolutely kept his eyes open. He didn’t need to watch Sherlock jump off the roof from behind his eyelids yet again.

“I’m sorry,” she said after a few seconds, and even sounded like she meant it. “But honestly, why does it have to be you? It’s _always_ you, John.”

He knew that. It had never bothered him. Not even after she’d started pointing it out.

“His brother’s away and there’s no one else. I’ll give you a call in the morning. Love you.”

“Love you,” she repeated. The words felt empty, recited by rote. She ended the call.

He shut down the phone completely before returning to Sherlock’s room. He was surprised to find him awake; not so surprised that he was drowsy and disorientated.

“John. I wanna go home. I don’t like it here.”

“I know,” John said gently, helping the nurse to get him to lie down again. “We’ll go home as soon as you’re better, I promise. But for now you need to stay here. All right?”

“But what if there’s a case?” Sherlock’s eyes burned, feverish. “Lestrade won’t know where to find me.”

“I’ll tell him,” John said in a soothing voice, patting his hand. “I’m sure if there’s a really good case he’ll put it aside until you can work it. And you…”

But Sherlock’s eyes were closed again. John sat down and got ready for what promised to be a long night.


	3. November 14th - Sherlock

Sherlock closes his eyes tightly, but it doesn’t help. He has a feeling nothing can help at this point. Not on day five. 

Nothing but sleep, and sleep is the last thing he wants right now.

In seven more hours, he’ll have been awake for one hundred and twenty hours straight. That’s his limit. 

Well, no. According to his diary, he’s gone as long as nine days. A hundred hours more. But according to John, that was at the cost of a full blown paranoia–slash–psychosis episode caused by hallucinations he refused to describe.

Sherlock doesn’t remember those hallucinations – obviously – but he has a fairly good idea what they were like. Probably the same thing he’s seeing and hearing now.

“ _Just kill yourself, already. And do it for real this time._ ”

Shaking his head, he opens his eyes again and pulls out his phone. He sent John home to get some rest four hours ago, but now he wishes he hadn’t insisted that much. It seemed like the best thing to do at the time. John was falling asleep in his chair, and another night at NSY would only have made his shoulder worse. He never complained about it, but Sherlock could see it in every movement he made, in the tightness at the corners of his eyes and mouth. John being in pain is not conducive to Sherlock doing his best thinking, so he argued and pleaded, and after getting a promise out of Sherlock John finally relented.

And now, after getting too little sleep, he’s going to cross London again in the middle of the night to come back to Sherlock.

Gritting his teeth, Sherlock fulfills his promise and types a single word. _Hallucinations._ And continues to ignore Moriarty.

It’s only seconds before John’s answer comes in. _On my way._ Annoyed with himself, his body, his brain, the situation, the entire world – and maybe even John, just a little bit – Sherlock pockets his phone and rakes the fingers of both his hands through his hair.

“ _Still at your beck and call, then? Poor John. Poor, poor John. You’re the one who can’t remember, but he’s reliving the same thing over and over right along with you. How long until he tires of it?_ ”

“He won’t,” Sherlock snaps, remembering the words on John’s chest. Marker rather than tattoo, and John explained why, but what if there was another reason for the lack of permanence, what if—

Moriarty laughs, his phantom steps hitting the floor what feels like inches away. 

“ _Are you sure?”_ he asks in a singsong voice. “ _Really, really sure? Do you have all the data to predict what he will or will not do?_ ”

Sherlock resolutely keeps his back to him and glares at the papers and photos pinned to the wall, willing himself to finally see the connection.

“He won’t,” he repeats more quietly, absently stroking his chest with two fingers.

Behind him, the feet of a chair scrape against the floor and Lestrade wakes up.

“Huh? What? Did you—”

“No, I didn’t figure it out yet,” Sherlock interrupts. “Why don’t you just go home already? Your snoring is irritating.”

“ _Tss tss. He wasn’t snoring. Don’t tell me you’re hallucinating him, too, Sherlock. I thought you and I had something special._ ”

“I wasn’t snoring,” Lestrade echoes.

His chair scrapes the floor again. When he stands, his back cracks audibly. It makes Sherlock’s own back twinge in sympathy. He’d like to sit, to lie down, but he’s afraid if he does either he’ll be asleep in moments. With heavy steps, Lestrade comes to stand by Sherlock, his arms crossed over his chest. His sleeves are rolled up. His shirt has seen better days.

“Tell me what you see,” Sherlock demands. “Tell me about the case like I’m just hearing about it now.”

Lestrade turns to frown at him, his mouth already opening for an altogether predictable question. Damn, Sherlock walked straight into that one. He’s just so bloody tired. Moriarty laughs again behind them.

“I’m fine,” he says gruffly. “I wasn’t the one napping. I just need something to connect all of it. A spark. Maybe if I hear you describe it…”

He shrugs, frustrated, and turns away from the wall and the evidence pinned to it. Before he can walk away, Lestrade rests a hand on his arm.

“Sherlock… How bad is it?”

It’s all Sherlock can do not to jerk himself free.

“John’s on his way,” he says sharply in guise of answer. “I’m rather certain he’ll insist I need to go home at once. So if it’s all the same for you, I’d rather talk about the case and try to catch your murderers than discuss my hallucinations.”

Damn it! He didn’t mean to say that. It’s a rule in the diary, at the top of the page devoted to dealing with Lestrade and the other yarders: _Never, ever mention hallucinations. They will send you home faster than you can claim you were joking_.

Not that anyone would believe he can joke about that particular topic. Or maybe John—

“ _Oh, come on, Sherlock. You know what a slip like that means. There’s no shame in admitting you’re exhausted. It won’t kill you to sleep for just a minute, will it? Although you know I’d much rather you kill yourself. I’ve been waiting all this time for you to come shake my hand like you promised. You’re not going to break your promise, are you? I’d be so disappointed if you did._ ”

Lestrade’s hand falls away from his arm and Sherlock doesn’t know whether to be relieved or irritated. That point of contact was unwanted, but it was also something solid, something real, something to cling to. He braces himself for Lestrade’s rebuke, already wondering whether he should wait for John in here or outside.

But rather than asking him to leave, Lestrade asks, “Why did you say murderers, plural? I’ve been looking at this thinking we just had one. What am I missing?”

Sherlock’s first instinct is to scoff and say he must have heard wrong. But as he replays his own words, he realizes that he did say ‘murderers’ even though like Lestrade he was only anticipating one for their three victims.

“ _Ordinary_ ,” Moriarty cackles in the corner of the room. “ _Soooo ordinary. It took you ages to figure it out when it was all so obvious. Think of all the time you wasted. You could have been done two days ago, and that’s two days you could have spent with your poor pet. Have you been paying enough attention to him, Sherlock? Have you noticed how much he longs for you? He tries so, so hard to let you play, but oh, he wants to play too, and a very different kind of games. Do you think he’ll let himself touch you tonight, or will he insist you must sleep as soon as possible? Poor John, having a wank in the shower again, and you pretending you don’t know what—_ ”

“Shut up shut up shut up!”

Sherlock’s fists tighten in his hair until pain becomes a distraction, drowning out that hateful voice as it continues spitting out every last fear lurking at the back of Sherlock’s mind. He hears, vaguely, Lestrade saying his name in a tone filled with concern, but Sherlock blocks that too, focusing on the victims, the crime scene, the evidence, the witnesses, all those clues he gathered in the past four and a half days, those clues his subconscious already added up to come up with a number greater than one.

His eyes snap open.

“Oh!”

Obvious. So obvious. If he wasn’t so tired, he’d have realized it ages ago. When he turns to Lestrade, he almost wants to yell at him. _His_ brain is intact, and he’s been getting some sleep at least if not entirely as much as he’d like. What’s his excuse for not figuring it out?

He doesn’t yell, but he can’t help but snipe, once or twice. Or maybe more than that. Lestrade takes the insults in stride, urging Sherlock on whenever he stops his explanation. In the end, just as Sherlock is about to name the murderers, Lestrade beats him to it.

“The sisters!” he exclaims, sounding both baffled and annoyed. “Why didn’t I see that?”

“The sisters,” Sherlock repeats, his scarf already wrapped around his neck as he’s picking his coat off the back of a chair. “I’d ask you to let me know about the arrest but I doubt I’ll care about this case much longer.”

He steps toward the door, but Lestrade stops him with a word.

“Sherlock.”

Trying to hide just how tired he is, Sherlock glances back at him.

“I appreciate your help,” Lestrade says, sounding somewhat uncomfortable. “I should say it more often, but I really—”

“Even if you said it every day,” Sherlock cuts in, “it still wouldn’t be any different to me.”

Lestrade grimaces. “I know. But I just.”

He sighs. He doesn’t quite look Sherlock in the eyes; good thing, too. Sherlock has no use for pity. He picks up his jacket from the table, bunched up from being used as a pillow, and gestures at the door before sliding it on.

“I’ll come with you. The arrest can wait a little longer.”

“I’m just going to wait outside,” Sherlock says, rolling his eyes. “I don’t need a minder.”

“You’re not the only one who made a promise to John. And I need a smoke anyway.”

They go down in silence. Sherlock wants to ask since when Lestrade has been smoking again, but he’s afraid he’s asked before, over and over, and one thing is still true: he hates repeating himself. So he keeps quiet, and doesn’t ask either if he’s picked up smoking again. Doubtful anyway; John wouldn’t let him keep cigarettes, and it’d be useless for Sherlock to try to hide them for later.

Out in the street, Lestrade leans back against the nearest wall, and Sherlock itches to do the same. He forces himself to remain standing. Even with the cold air filling his lungs, stinging his cheeks and giving him a jolt, it’ll be hard enough to remain awake in the cab. But he has to. He needs to. Get home, write up the case in his diary, and then John. Take care of John. Be good to John. Make sure—

“Do you still see it?” Lestrade asks suddenly. “Or hear it?”

Sherlock’s head jerks up. “What?”

But his surprise comes less from the fact that Lestrade asked than the realization that no, he doesn’t hear or see Moriarty anymore. He’s afraid to think too much about it and wonder about the why; afraid Moriarty will come back.

Lestrade lets out a sigh of blue smoke. “Your hallucinations. You said shut up, so I’m thinking you heard something. You wouldn’t look to the corner of the room, so you were seeing it too. Or are still seeing it. What is it, Sherlock? Do you want to talk about it now that the case is over?”

Sherlock shakes his head, ready to let the topic drop, but he can’t help but ask, “Have you asked before?”

Lestrade nods as he takes another long drag on his cigarette.

“I’m guessing I never answered, or you wouldn’t keep asking.”

“Or maybe you did answer,” Lestrade retorts, “and I want to know if it’s the same hallucinations.”

Sherlock snorts. “No I didn’t. I wouldn’t…”

He trails off as a thought comes to him. He wouldn’t tell Lestrade or anyone else he hallucinates about Moriarty telling him to kill himself – and he won’t put it in the diary in case John reads it. He said he doesn’t, but really, how can Sherlock know for sure? He doesn’t even want to put it in code in the diary, because that’s the first thing he’ll read when he wakes up next time, and maybe reading what form his hallucinations take might turn into a case of self-fulfilling prophecy. But if he gave himself a clue through Lestrade, he might know if he’s right in thinking they’re always the same. He thinks for a second; it’s not difficult to think of a clue obscure enough for others but clear enough for himself.

“Next time I mention hallucinations,” he says, getting close enough to Lestrade that he can breathe in a bit of secondhand smoke and realize that no, he hasn’t taken up smoking again, “I need you to say this, precisely. Are you paying attention?”

Lestrade stands a little straighter. He nods. “Do you want me to write it down?”

Sherlock makes an impatient gesture. “If you need to. Just say this: ‘are you shaking hands in hell?’” 

Frowning, Lestrade mouths the words. It’s clear he wants to ask what it all means, but before he can say a word, John’s voice rises behind Sherlock.

“Ready to go home, then?”

Not bothering even with a goodbye to Lestrade, Sherlock turns around. John is standing by the open door of a cab. His eyes look bruised, the shadows under them too deep, but he’s smiling softly. Without thinking, Sherlock smiles back.

“Home sounds like a rather smashing idea,” he says, climbing into the cab. John follows after a quick goodbye to Lestrade and a quieter, “Three days.”

If Lestrade responds, Sherlock can’t hear it. He doesn’t ask John what that means. It’s fairly obvious. Lestrade won’t call with another case for at least three days, presumably so Sherlock can catch up on sleep. He bites the inside of his cheek rather than protest. He needs the sleep, he knows that. He just wishes he didn’t need to be mothered like this.

“So who was it?” John asks after instructing the driver to return to Baker Street.

He’s sitting in the middle of the back seat, his leg pressed to Sherlock’s. They’ve been sitting like this in cabs for five days but it still feels odd. Odd, and pleasant, and strangely familiar, too. It’s like Sherlock’s leg remembers the feel of John’s, the way it presses gently without being overwhelming, even when Sherlock’s mind insists this is all new.

“The sisters,” Sherlock says, and proceeds to tell John everything, even the bits he already knows, because if he stops talking surely he’ll fall asleep and that can’t happen, not now, not yet.

“You’re amazing,” John whispers when Sherlock is done. “Do you know that?”

“If I did, I must have forgotten,” Sherlock replies deadpan, then smiles, just a little, to show John he’s teasing. “Clearly you don’t say it often enough anymore. Getting used to my brilliance, Doctor Watson?”

John laughs and takes Sherlock’s hand, squeezing it lightly. “Not bloody likely. You just like hearing it too much for your own good so I have to pace myself.”

But Sherlock isn’t listening. He’s looking at John’s hand, wrapped around his own as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. And maybe it is. The words inked over Sherlock’s chest certainly hint that this happens on a fairly regular basis. But it hasn’t happened in the past five days, and so to Sherlock, it’s the first time they’ve held hands since that one time with the handcuffs, what feels like a lifetime ago.

“Sherlock?” John says quietly as he gives another small squeeze to his hand. “Is this all right?”

Sherlock nods once, hesitantly, then again with more determination.

“It’s fine. I’m just wondering why you didn’t do it until now.”

John laughs again. “You were on a case, idiot.”

It sounds like a conversation they’ve had before – a conversation in which Sherlock probably said something like, _you’re too distracting so you’ll have to refrain from doing this while I’m working_.

“The case is over,” Sherlock says, and his voice sounds oddly rough.

“I know,” John says, grinning.

His hand shifts, turns over, and now they’re palm to palm, fingers entwined. His leg is warm against Sherlock’s. If Sherlock believed in god, he’d thank him, her or them that he can see the door to 221B in the distance.


	4. June 27th - John

Seated in what had once been his armchair, what was fast becoming his armchair again, John stared at nothing in particular and sipped from a glass of whiskey. It might have been his second, maybe his third. He’d decided not to count.

As a rule, he didn’t drink much. He’d witnessed firsthand how enjoying just a drink every now and then could too quickly turn into needing a few drinks every day. Every once in a great while, though, indulging was nice. Tonight, he had what was, in his opinion, the best of excuses.

As he was raising the tumbler to his lips again, he heard noise from Sherlock’s bedroom. He glanced at his watch; four hours. He heaved a sigh. Sherlock had been tiring easily since coming out of the hospital ten days earlier, and he rarely went more than a full day without sleep. But when he did sleep, it was never for long enough. The doctor had warned John it might happen, and there was a bottle of sleeping pills on Sherlock’s night table – not that he ever agreed to take any.

After only a week, patterns were starting to emerge, and John pulled out his phone. It didn’t miss: within just seconds, his phone chimed as the first message came in.

_I don’t suppose you’re still at Angelo’s.  
SH_

John didn’t bother typing a response. Sherlock’s door was already opening. He had to have heard the chime of John’s phone. He came into the living room in his pajamas and dressing gown, his hair in disarray, the phone in his hand.

“John?”

John nodded at him and indicated the chair across from him. “Have a seat, Sherlock. We need to talk.”

They needed to, yes, but John really didn’t feel up to it. They’d done this just that morning and John had hoped he’d get a bit more time to prepare again. Every time he told Sherlock, it was harder than the last. He was sick of it already. They’d have to find a better way. John supposed he’d need to be entirely sober to figure that one out, though.

Sherlock looked troubled as he sat down. He always was. John knew exactly why.

“The date?” he asked after wetting his lips with whiskey.

Sherlock glanced at the phone, then back at John, frowning ever so briefly at the glass in his hand.

“I guess it’d have been too much to ask you to stay at Angelo’s for twenty-five days,” he said, his voice trembling ever so slightly.

Smiling sadly, John nodded. An attempt at humor; that was new.

“I’m not that patient, no.” He observed Sherlock for a few seconds. “Do you want to figure it out for yourself or do you want me to tell you?”

Sherlock had tried to work it out three times; he’d never come close. The idea that his brain might not be working exactly as it ought to was literally unthinkable to him.

“Tell me,” he asked quietly, and John did.

Symptoms. Diagnosis. Encephalitis. Coma. Anterograde amnesia. Prognosis. 

They were medical words, and as such they flowed easily off John’s tongue, even when it felt a bit too heavy from the alcohol. He didn’t say he’d all but lived in Sherlock’s hospital room for two weeks. He didn’t mention the dark circles under Mycroft’s eyes when he’d watched Sherlock breathe through a machine, and the tremor in his voice when he’d said it was something he’d hoped never to see again.

What was the point of telling Sherlock just how much they’d feared for his life? That part of the story was over, now. To Sherlock, it had never happened, would never be more than words, easily forgotten.

Fingers steepled in front of his face, Sherlock observed John in silence for a long moment after John had concluded with, “You went to bed four hours ago. That’s nowhere near enough. You should try to sleep some more.”

“How many times have you explained this to me?” he finally asked.

John took a sip from his glass. The alcohol burned, giving him an excuse to grimace. “No idea. I’m not going to keep count. Next question.”

“Are you always the one who tells me?”

“Mycroft tried once in the hospital.” John snorted quietly. “You refused to believe him. You accused him of running some kind of experiment on you. He was not amused.”

And that was the understatement of the year. Mycroft, who, as far as John knew, had spent decades verbally jousting with Sherlock, had taken the accusation like a blow. He’d immediately put up a good front, but the façade had cracked just long enough for John to see how much it hurt that his brother did not trust him.

“How does it work, then?” Sherlock asked quietly, his eyes narrowing. He sounded like he was talking to himself rather than John. “If you’re to tell me about my condition every time I wake up, you’d need…” 

His gaze flicked over John as his voice trailed off; John turned his face away as he took another sip – the last one from this glass. He didn’t want to know what Sherlock saw when he looked at him.

“You’ve been living here,” Sherlock said with some degree of surprise. “How long?”

John stood and retreated to the kitchen to help himself to another couple fingers of whiskey. He could see where this conversation was going, and he was far too sober for it.

“Since you were released from the hospital,” he said as he returned. Sitting down again, he scrunched up his bare toes into the carpet, waiting for Sherlock to deduce it all.

“If my condition was temporary,” Sherlock said slowly, “I could understand you moving in to help for a few days. But you said the prognosis is that my memory will remain affected, with no chance of healing.”

It wasn’t a question, so John said nothing. Sherlock’s gaze felt heavier and heavier on him. He hid behind his glass.

“How did we go from me ruining your life by demanding too much of your time to you resigning your job at the surgery and moving back in with me?”

John closed his eyes. Which part should he address first? God but he didn’t want to do this, not now, not again, not so soon after the last time. He’d thought he’d get at least a full day.

“You need more sleep,” he murmured. “There are sleeping pills in your bedroom. How about—”

“No,” Sherlock cut in sharply, jumping to his feet and pacing through the room. “I’m not tired, not in the least. “I want… no, I need to know what happened. Everything that happened. Tell me.”

“Tell you what?” John snapped. “I didn’t quit my job. I was let go for taking more days off than I was entitled to. Apparently ‘standing guard over comatose friend’ is not quite good enough an excuse, or at least not when you forget to tell your boss you won’t be coming in for the foreseeable future.”

John took a sip at the memory, his hand clenching tighter over the glass. He’d _forgotten_. At the time, it had seemed hilarious. His tiny little brain had forgotten he had a job, and a supervisor, and obligations, while Sherlock’s brain, Sherlock’s stupendous brain… He didn’t finish that thought, drowning it again in another mouthful of liquid fire.

“So your current job is… what?” Sherlock stopped pacing and turned a sharp look to John. “At home nurse? A bit of a waste of your abilities, _Doctor_. I hope Mycroft is giving you a generous compensation.”

John snorted. One day, Sherlock would react differently. One day he’d say ‘thank you’ rather than get annoyed he had to rely on someone. One day… John was very good at deluding himself.

“Mycroft isn’t paying me. You are.” He raised his glass to Sherlock as though in a toast. “I’ve got full access to your trust fund. Your idea. Thanks again for that, by the way.”

Sherlock looked shocked. He always did at this point. “My _trust fund_? You have full access to it? _I_ don’t even have full access to it!”

“Your idea,” John said again. “Your brother arranged it, but I can show you your signature on the papers. You thought it was the only way to be sure your bills would get paid in time or that you could live here rather than in an institution. Well, the only way other than—”

“Depend on Mycroft,” Sherlock finished for him, now thoughtful but less agitated. “Yes. I can see that, now. This was for the best.”

“Was it?” John snorted. “Can you think of no reason why it might be a hardship for me to be in Baker Street at all times?”

Frowning, Sherlock drew the robe tighter around him before plopping himself on the sofa. “If it was that much of a hardship,” he said, “you wouldn’t have agreed.”

John shook his head. He knew not to expect this. Sherlock had never asked about it, and today, more than ever, it hardly mattered if he did. But really, wasn’t that the sort of things one’s best friend, whether he had his full memory or not, would ask about?

“You’re not going to ask what Mary thinks of all this, are you?” he mumbled before taking a deep gulp. “Of course not. What does it matter to you? You couldn’t be arsed to tell me what you knew about her first husband, why would it all matter any more now?”

“If you’d asked me,” Sherlock started, but John cut in angrily.

“Oh, sod off! You knew I wouldn’t ask you. And I’d bet my left hand you knew I wasn’t going to ask her. You weren’t trying to look out for me, you weren’t trying to help me understand why my wife was pulling away from me, you were just doing what you do best. Showing off. Showing me how much smarter you are. How blind I am. Would it have killed you, really? Once in your life, would it have killed you to be a good friend and say, ‘John, your wife’s first husband cheated on her with a woman he claimed was his best friend from all the way back to their primary school years, so you might want to assure her you’re not going to cheat on her with your best friend even when he calls at ridiculous hours because he needs back up on a case’? Or you could have told her yourself. You never bothered when anyone assumed we were a couple, but just this once—”

His throat felt too tight to continue and he took a drink.

“How long, Sherlock?” he asked, staring at the empty chair in front of him rather than at Sherlock himself. “How long have you known my marriage would end in a divorce? 

He’d received the papers today. Mary hadn’t even bothered calling him.

“How long?” he repeated again, now turning his eyes to Sherlock.

Sherlock’s face was pale, bloodless, probably a better representation of how he felt than his expressionless features.

“If you’re implying I could have stopped your relationship from disintegrating, then you greatly overestimate me, as unlikely as that sounds.”

“If I’m implying anything,” John snapped, “it’s that you’re the reason it disintegrated. We were fine until you came back. Just fine. And then there you were, acting like it was all a joke, calling at all hours, barging in on us whenever you pleased. And then you were ill, and who else was going to stay with you? Your other friend? Oh yes, I can just see it, your bloody skull in that chair, watching over you. And then you woke up, and you asked if I’d help, and never even stopped to wonder how well my wife would react to that. That’s how good of a friend you are. You assumed I’d pick you over her.”

 _And I did,_ John thought bitterly. _God help me, I did._

Granted, by that time Mary had already decreed it would be better for them to separate and live apart, ‘at least for a while.’ But it had still hurt that Sherlock had not even paused to ask about her. And after ten days of keeping it to himself, the rancor had finally spilled out of John.

“You could have just said no,” Sherlock said. His voice was stripped of all emotions. His eyes were blank as he stood and considered John for a moment. “You could still say no now. Call my brother. Tell him you’ve had enough. He’ll find someone else and you can live your life free of me. Just change your phone number and you won’t even get those messages whenever I wake up and think I’ve missed our lunch.”

With that, Sherlock marched away, his back ramrod straight. His bedroom door banged shut behind him.

It was only with great difficulty that John managed not to throw his glass at the wall. Closing his eyes tightly shut, he took a few deep breaths, but it did little to help him clear his mind. He felt a little unsteady when he stood and went to the bathroom, intending to wash up before turning in for the night. But when he splashed cold water on his face and looked at himself in the mirror, his stomach twisted, and it had nothing to do with the alcohol he’d drunk. 

“Damn it,” he murmured. 

He hadn’t meant to rant at Sherlock, not like that. Some of it was true – and whatever Sherlock said, John refused to believe Sherlock hadn’t guessed his marriage was doomed – but for the most part it was unfair to dump this on Sherlock. Maybe he could have helped, but John had hardly made anything better every time he’d answered Sherlock’s messages in the middle of dinner or even late at night. And like Sherlock had said, John could have said no. He just hadn’t wanted to. He’d imagined Sherlock in a recovery house, with strangers who knew nothing about him, about his habits, about what made him happy or sent him into sullen strops, and that thought had been unbearable.

John had chosen this, and he’d known exactly what he was getting into when he agreed. He’d known he’d have to have the same conversation, over and over. He’d known he’d be all but tied to Sherlock. And he’d known exactly who Sherlock was. Who he’d always be: the same man he’d been the morning of June 2nd. Expecting anything different was lunacy.

He stared at himself a little longer in the mirror, and, deciding he was sober enough, made himself a promise. This was it. This was the last time he blamed Sherlock for any of it. He hadn’t chosen his illness or its consequences. What he’d done was entrust himself into John’s care, even after John had failed him by not figuring out right away what was wrong with him. John refused to betray that trust again. He hadn’t put up much of a fight to save his marriage. He couldn’t lose Sherlock on top of it.

He dried his face, then his hands, and went to knock on Sherlock’s door.

“Sherlock? Can I come in? I need to talk to you.”

The lack of response wasn’t exactly a surprise.

“I’m coming in, now,” he announced, and when Sherlock didn’t object, he pushed the door open.

Sherlock was curled up on the bed, his back to John, still in his dressing gown. He hadn’t even bothered getting under the covers.

“I’m sorry,” John offered, feeling a little awkward at talking to the back of Sherlock’s head. “It was my marriage, I’m the one who let it fall part, and it’s unfair for me to blame you. I know it’s not like you’ll be able to hold me to this, but I promise I won’t repeat this outburst. It was uncalled for and I apologize.”

He paused, then, waiting for Sherlock to lash out with a particularly cutting bit of sarcasm. Sherlock remained silent.

“I’m not going to go away,” John added, more quietly now. “I said I’d be there for you, and I will. It’ll get easier. I mean, it’s hard to see you like this. It’s hard to know you’re not going to get better. But if you and I think it through, if we make up… I don’t know, a script or something that’ll make it easier for you whenever you wake up, maybe you can find some sort of normalcy. And I think it’d make it easier for me too if I don’t have to see you upset day after day.”

Sherlock still didn’t answer. Sighing, John stepped up to the bed.

“Fine,” he muttered, tugging the bunched up blanket over Sherlock’s legs. “Just pretend you can’t hear me, it’s not like…”

The words caught in his throat when he noticed the pill bottle in Sherlock’s hand. He reached for it, and Sherlock didn’t try to hold on to it, nor did he stir when John pressed on his shoulder until he rolled onto his back. His eyes were closed, his mouth parted, and a tiny snore rose from his throat with each breath.

John’s hand shook a little when he opened the bottle and emptied it in his palm to count the pills. Two were missing. No more than two, thankfully. Sherlock hadn’t been trying to make sure he wouldn’t wake ever again. He’d just made sure he’d forget this conversation as soon as it had happened.

“Not fair,” John mumbled, brushing the hair off Sherlock’s forehead. “How can I say I’m sorry if you don’t even remember what I’m sorry for?”

Sherlock, of course, didn’t reply.

It was a long time before John left the room. When he did, it was with the repeated promise that things would get easier if not better. They had to. If they didn’t, what was the point of it all?


	5. October 29th - Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas

It’s nothing more than a guess that brings Sherlock to a small tattoo parlor on the west side; he helped the owner, once, and was offered free services as a sign of gratitude. At the time, Sherlock wouldn’t have dreamed of marking his skin in a permanent manner – and nevermind the needle part of that equation. Today, though… Necessity changes things.

He pushes the door and walks in, his eyes sweeping the shop. The tattoo artist – Leo – is at work in the back, bent over the arm of a client. He stops for a second to wipe off the excess ink, glancing up at Sherlock and smiling.

“Hey, Sherlock. Nice to see you again. Another one?”

Does he know? Apparently not. He seems to be assuming that Sherlock remembers his last visit. Irrelevant. He knows why Sherlock is here, that’s all that matters.

“Do you have time to do it tonight?” he asks, peering from afar at the tattoo in progress. A bird? No, a dragon. It has to be tonight. Sherlock isn’t hallucinating yet, it’s only been three days, but he is tired, and without a case it’s hard not to let sleep claim him.

“Gimme fifteen minutes, half an hour tops,” Leo says, already back at work. “We’re almost done with this beauty. There’s paper on the desk, just go ahead and write what you want.”

Sherlock finds paper and a wide marker. He’s known what he needs to make sure he remembers from the moment John slammed the door of the flat, but it still feels odd to see the words written out, black on white.

_Be better or John will leave you._

He thought of writing ‘good’ rather than ‘better’, but no one has ever accused him of being good, and he’s not sure he has it in him to be that. But he can be better than his normal self, if he tries hard enough. He can avoid doing those things that make John’s lips turn to a fine, angry line, like storing decaying body parts in the fridge. He can make tea for John instead of always waiting for John to make it for him – even though tea made by John always tastes inexplicably better. He can avoid references to St. Bart’s roof, or suicide. 

Really, that last one should be a given. He truly knows better. He learned quickly after he came back to London that the topic was not one to be treated lightly in front of John. But today he was annoyed at some experiment that wasn’t turning out the way he’d expected, and the words came out of their own accord. He didn’t mean to argue with John. He certainly didn’t mean to anger him, or send him striding from the flat for ‘some fresh air’. And it all happened anyway.

John’s reaction is not all that unexpected. It’s not the first time he’s walked out because Sherlock had done or said something that upset him. The thing is, Sherlock has no idea how many times it has happened since they’ve become more than friends. For all he knows, it happens once a week, and every time John has more and more trouble finding a reason to come back. It’s even entirely possible it’s always the same arguments.

In a normal relationship – not that Sherlock ever had one of those, but he can infer from observation – the parties involved in an argument either learn to compromise, one of them changes their position to satisfy the other, or they run the risk of antagonizing each other until the relationship dissolves. But how is Sherlock supposed to compromise or change when he can’t _learn_ anything new?

He likes to think he knows John, knows what makes him tick. But the truth is, he knows who John was back in early June: his best friend, a husband with a jealous wife, a doctor, amongst other things. But that’s not who John is anymore, as Sherlock started to realize when they woke up in the same bed three days ago. Lover rather than friend, divorced, no longer practicing medicine… What else is different? Sherlock could write entire notebooks about John, but John asked him not to write anything at all, and so Sherlock only has a few short notes in his diary. That, and the words on his skin.

One thing is obvious: if John left, Sherlock would be lost. So he’ll have to do his best not to make him leave.

Assuming he comes back tonight, and that thought is enough to render Sherlock deeply uneasy.

That half hour feels like ten times longer, but finally Leo’s customer stops exclaiming how happy she is with the dragon now curling around her forearm and leaves. Leo gives Sherlock a slight frown when he first reads the words, but thankfully he doesn’t ask about them. With any luck, he won’t ask while he’s working, the way he did with the customer who just left.

“So where are we putting this one?” he asks as he starts tracing the letters. “Chest again?”

Sherlock strokes his chest absently with two fingers. He’s noticed he’s been doing that a lot in the past three days.

“Correct. And inversed, like the others.”

A few more minutes, and Leo has the stencil ready. The letters transfer easily to Sherlock’s skin. Settling down in the tattoo chair feels absolutely foreign to Sherlock, and he eyes the tattoo gun with something akin to wariness, his body tensing against the first assault of the needle.

The sensation is sharper, more intense than he expected… and yet, it immediately feels familiar. Sherlock doesn’t remember getting his previous tattoos, but his body, it seems, does, and soon relaxes into the flowing lines Leo draws on his skin. It’s odd and somehow comforting to realize that yes, he can remember new things – just not with his mind.

“You’re a weird customer,” Leo says after a few minutes of work, never breaking his rhythm. “You and your boyfriend both. Just words, with you two. Nothing fancy. Not much fun for me.”

Sherlock closes his eyes and doesn’t answer.

He opens them again after only a second. It’s unlikely he’d fall asleep while getting a tattoo, but better not to tempt fate. Waking up as a blank slate in a tattoo chair he wouldn’t remember getting in does not sound like it’d be all that fun – especially for Leo.

“Are you sure I can’t tempt you in making it a bit fancier? Leo insists. “Some nice shading? Small designs between the letters?”

“It would defeat the purpose of having it in my handwriting. I wouldn’t have decorations on there, so I can’t have them, it’s that simple.”

Leo gives him a look like Sherlock isn’t making sense, but he doesn’t argue the point any more.

When Leo is finally done and Sherlock looks at the new line of text in the mirror, some of the worry nagging him abates a little. John won’t leave. Not this time. And not ever, not if Sherlock has any say in it. 

“Do you remember how to take care of it?” Leo asks as Sherlock puts his shirt back on.

Sherlock lies and says he does. He can look it up online.

Stepping out into the street, Sherlock rolls his eyes at the black livery car waiting by the sidewalk. He hasn’t been in contact with Mycroft since waking up, but he’s not surprised Mycroft would keep an eye on him. The diary warned him that Mycroft is as annoying as ever, if not more.

The driver comes out to open the door for him. Sherlock considers not getting in, but the alternative is going home and worrying if John hasn’t come back. A few more minutes of distraction will be welcome.

He climbs in, and crosses his arms over his chest before remembering the fresh tattoo. He can’t hide a grimace. But then, seeing what establishment he just walked out of, Mycroft probably already knew. 

“And what does this one say?” Mycroft asks, foregoing greetings.

“It says ‘Mycroft is an enormous prat’,” Sherlock replies deadpan, eyeing him sideways. “Do you really have nothing better to do? No elections to manipulate at the moment? No war to organize? No cake to devour?”

“It’s so comforting to know you’ll always be such a warm brother. There are so few things in life one can count on.”

Despite himself, Sherlock feels the beginning of a smile pushing at his lips, so he turns his face to the window. If Mycroft coddled him about his condition, it would be absolutely unbearable. But this? This feels right. This feels normal. And normal is the very thing Sherlock needs.

“Any reason for the car ride?” he asks. “I am quite capable of hailing a cab, I haven’t forgotten how to do that.”

“I’m sure,” Mycroft drawls. “Can’t I just want to see my little brother?”

Sherlock snorts. “John called you, didn’t he?”

“That is part of our arrangement. We try not to leave you alone. Especially when you’ve been awake for three days.”

Swallowing back the protest that he needs no minder, least of all Mycroft, Sherlock watches London on the other side of the glass. For him, days ago, it was spring; now the city is firmly settled into fall. It’s disconcerting.

“How often do you swoop in when he can’t stand me anymore?” he asks after a little while, whispering.

“Not as often as one would think.” Mycroft’s reflection in the window starts to reach out for Sherlock’s shoulder, but apparently thinks better of it and lowers his hand again. “Certainly not as often as I expected when we sat down and talked it out back in June.”

‘We’, Mycroft says. Who is covered by that word?

“Was I there?” Sherlock asks.

“Of course you were there. It was after all about your life.”

Mycroft doesn’t sound like he’s lying or obfuscating, but Sherlock turns to him anyway, looking at him properly since the first time he climbed into the car. He looks older. Or maybe just tired. 

Or maybe Sherlock is projecting.

“What’s the contingency plan?”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow at him. “The contingency plan?”

“Don’t play with me. What’s the plan for the day John tires of all of this? I know you, and I know myself. There’s a contingency plan.”

A thin smile tugs at Mycroft’s lips. “Maybe it’s John you don’t know as well as you should.”

“Meaning?” Sherlock demands, frowning.

“Meaning he insisted there was no reason to plan for that eventuality. He was quite convinced of it, even back in June, Sherlock. Right in the middle of a messy separation, he was certain he wouldn’t leave his best friend’s side. It was very telling.”

Sherlock’s throat tightens. He can’t help but raise a hand to his chest. Even covered, it hurts when he brushes his fingers against the tattoo, but the pain is welcome and helps clear his mind.

“But there _is_ a contingency plan,” he says, pushing the words out so they sound a little rough. “I’m guessing John left the room at some point, and you and I—”

“—made plans, yes,” Mycroft cuts in smoothly. “Of course.”

He stops there, as infuriating as ever.

“So?” Sherlock asks, annoyed.

Mycroft gives him a surprised look. “What? You want to know? Why? It’s not as though you need that information now. The man needed a moment to himself, Sherlock. That’s hardly anything surprising. He does live with you.”

Sherlock grinds his teeth. “Just tell me.”

“Sussex, obviously,” Mycroft says. “Familiar surroundings. You’ve expressed an interest in beekeeping. I’ve arranged it so that when the time comes, you’ll have two hives and the proper equipment.”

“What does that mean, when the time comes?”

Mycroft shrugs. “When John does what he swears he won’t and leaves, or when you two have enough of London and decide to retire. It’s not so much a contingency plan as preparing for the future. Because you do have a future, Sherlock.”

“Of course I have a future,” Sherlock scoffs. “And the best part of it is that I don’t have to remember all the annoying conversations you and I share. Not that I ever kept a record of them before.”

Mycroft, the annoying git, smiles and says nothing. It’s only moments before the car stops. Sherlock opens the door and steps out, expecting to find himself in Baker Street. Instead, he’s across the street from Angelo’s. The lone diner sitting at the table by the window is all too easily recognizable. There’s a candle in front of him, and two glasses of wine already poured.

Pulling his phone out, Sherlock sends a one word text.

_Hungry? SH_

Inside Angelo’s, John looks at his phone. He’s smiling when he types a reply.

_Starving._  
_Get in here already. I ordered for both of us._

It only takes Sherlock four strides to cross the street.


	6. July 22nd - John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And a Happy New Year!  
> (Fair warning - i anticipate much flailing after the new episode airs, so I might not be updating this or Crazy For Love for longer than usual.)

“Nice of you to come by, Greg!” Genuinely happy to see his friend, John shook Greg’s hand, welcoming him into the sitting room. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?” 

He stopped himself before mentioning beers. They didn’t have any in the flat. No alcohol, actually. John’s self-imposed penance for acting like an idiot the last time he’d had a glass and drowned himself in self-pity.

“Thanks but I can’t stay long,” Greg answered with an apologetic smile.

“Ah,” John said, understanding. “Business, then, not a social call.”

Greg’s smile sharpened a little. “Yeah, well, he made it clear last time that he’s not interested in sympathy. And you… I’m still waiting for you to reply to my last text about having a pint.”

It was John’s turn to smile ruefully. He rubbed a hand to the back of his head and went to take a seat, inviting Greg to do the same with a gesture.

“Still learning to adjust,” he said with a small shrug. “His sleeping patterns were too messed up for me to leave for very long. But that’s getting better. And we’re finding ways to cope.”

Greg gave him a questioning look, and John had no doubt that, had this not been ‘business’, he would have asked. Maybe soon John would be able to take him up on that pint offer.

“How much better is he?” Greg asked, more quietly, now. “Well enough to take on a case?”

John’s gaze flickered to the hallway where Sherlock had just appeared. His hair was still a little damp from his shower, and he was buttoning the cuffs on his shirt. The white fabric was so thin that John could guess the black ink under the left sleeve. Or maybe he thought he could see it because he knew it was there.

“Why don’t you ask him directly?” John said, directing Greg’s attention to him.

Greg’s head jerked up and he smiled. “Hey, Sherlock, hi. Good to see you. You look—”

“You can dispense with the platitudes,” Sherlock cut in coolly, now slipping on his suit jacket. “Yes, I’m perfectly able to take on a case, provided it’s interesting enough.” He arched an eyebrow toward Greg. “But then, if it wasn’t interesting, you wouldn’t be here. You haven’t come by at all since my illness, have you? It just goes to show how deeply our ‘friendship’ runs.”

Greg’s smile faded. He glanced at John, rolling his eyes. John silenced a chuckle.

“Actually,” John said, his amusement piercing in his voice, “Greg has been around to check on you. And you, giant git that you are, told him not to bother showing up again unless he had a good case for you.”

Sherlock froze in the middle of brushing imaginary lint off his lapel. For the briefest of instant, John could almost have believed he was embarrassed – if ‘embarrassed’ was a word that could ever apply to Sherlock Holmes. Soon, though, his expression turned haughty.

“That wasn’t in the notebook,” he sniffed. “I can’t be held responsible for what’s not in the notebook.”

“What notebook?” Greg asked.

“One of our coping mechanisms,” John told him, before answering Sherlock. “It’s not in the notebook because his last visit was pre-notebook. You might want to put in a page about him.”

Sherlock sniffed again. “A page? More like, three lines.”

“I have this vague feeling I should be insulted,” Greg said wryly. “But that’s hardly anything new when I’m around you.”

Taking a seat, Sherlock unbuttoned his jacket buttons, which he’d just done up. His fingers were soon drumming on the armrest of his chair as he demanded details about the case from Greg. John listened absently, something bothering him in Sherlock’s demeanor. The drumming wasn’t anything new, but it usually meant Sherlock was bored. He’d been up for twelve hours or so… Was that enough to be bored already?

“We’ve found two legs,” Greg said grimly. “One a week ago, the other one this morning. Both amputated above the knee, apparently by someone with surgeon skills. Two right legs, so they’re not from the same person.”

“And if you’re here,” Sherlock said, “I assume it means you didn’t find the owner of the first one, and anticipate the same lack of result with this one.”

Greg shrugged. “Well, we’ll be looking, of course, but I thought maybe you’d be able to give us something to work with.”

It was apparently interesting enough for Sherlock to take the case, and he asked Greg for the address.

“Just come with me,” Greg said as he stood. “The car’s downstairs, it’ll be faster.”

“When have you known me to voluntarily get into police cars?” Sherlock scoffed. “We’ll take a cab. Address?”

As soon as Greg left, Sherlock jumped to his feet, rubbing his hands together. “Two right legs,” he muttered, and John couldn’t tell if he was talking to him or to himself. “Sounds like it might be a fun one.”

At the flicker of a glance toward John right on the last word, John realized two things at once: Sherlock was waiting for him to say that being excited by severed legs was not on – and he was nervous. That was what his fidgeting was about. Nervousness, not boredom. But why? 

“You might want to tone it down a little,” he said, vaguely reproachful, since that was what was expected of him. “Especially in front of the Yarders.”

Sherlock huffed. He was already at the door, waiting for John with undisguised impatience. “They already think little of me. If I didn’t act like myself, they’d think something is wrong.”

Following Sherlock down to the street, John wondered if this was the reason for his nervousness. Should he address the matter? God knew he didn’t want to, not when Sherlock was having what was, all things considered, a pretty good day so far. But he’d realize soon enough…

Once they’d climbed into a cab and were on their way to the crime scene, he decided he might as well tell Sherlock. 

“They know what happened to you,” he said after clearing his throat. “It’s not just Lestrade. Everyone knows.”

Sherlock, who’d been poking at his phone with lightning-fast fingers, looked up in surprise.

“Why would they know that? How?”

John winced.

“Some orderly at the hospital recognized you and sold the story to a journalist. It was front page news for a couple days. The genius detective who’d come back from the dead, now with a rare neurological condition. It was all in there.”

John could see a muscle twitching in Sherlock’s cheek as he clenched his jaw.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said coldly, returning his eyes to the phone – but everything about him shouted that yes, it did matter.

“You’ll be fine,” John said, unable to stop himself.

Sherlock didn’t even look up. “Of course I’ll be fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“No reason,” John murmured, looking out the window. “No reason at all.”

They were both silent for a little while, but as they were approaching their destination, Sherlock asked, “What’s the longest I’ve gone without falling asleep?”

“Twenty hours.”

In the reflection on the glass, John could see Sherlock grimace.

“Is that all?”

“Well considering that when you got out of the hospital you couldn’t go twelve hours without a nap, twenty isn’t all that bad.”

Sherlock bristled. “No need to patronize me.”

“I’m not patronizing you,” John said calmly. This, too, was beginning to feel like a much too familiar conversation. “You asked a question, I answered. You woke up… twelve and a half hours ago, now. Which means you’ve got roughly seven and a half hours, maybe a little more, maybe a bit less, to show Lestrade and his people you’re as brilliant as ever. It’s not like you’ve never worked on a deadline before. Now stop being nervous because you’re making _me_ nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” Sherlock claimed indignantly, but his foot, John noticed, stopped its tapping.

As John had predicted, Sherlock was brilliant. More than that. He was blazing, practically going on full incandescent as he deduced more about the poor woman the leg had once been attached to than should have been possible from just one limb.

For the first time in far too long, John heard himself choke on a quiet, “Amazing.” Sherlock threw him the most furtive of smiles. Around them, Lestrade, Donovan and a couple more officers looked properly impressed – which, in Donovan’s case, meant a full-on scowl, but that was just as much par for the course as John’s praise.

Lestrade was so impressed, in fact, that he asked Sherlock to look at the other leg, which they had in cold storage across town. Sherlock made a fuss about how much would have been lost in a week, but he consented to take a look at it, provided it was sent to St. Bart’s.

“Why St. Bart’s?” John asked as they were climbing in a cab. “It’d have been faster to go wherever they had it in the first place.

Sherlock shrugged. “I might have to analyze some things, and I work best there. Besides, it gives us a bit of time for lunch.”

“Lunch?” John repeated, stunned. “You’re going to have lunch?”

“Of course not,” Sherlock said with a roll of his eyes. “I’m on a case. I can’t afford to slow down now.”

John felt completely mystified. “You can’t afford to slow down so you’re going to lunch where you won’t actually eat. You realize that makes no sense, right?”

Sherlock’s deep sigh contained inordinate amounts of ‘really, you can’t be that much of an idiot’, which somehow was rather comforting.

“We’re going to lunch,” he said, speaking slowly, “where you will eat so you don’t spend the day distracting me by complaining you’re hungry.” After a brief pause, he added, now affecting annoyance, “And anyway, I believe I owe you a meal?”

John was still grinning two hours later when they arrived at St. Bart’s. The place, though, was very good at sapping him from every bit of happiness he ever managed to glean, and he was in more somber spirits when they walked in.

“How long has it been since Molly visited?” Sherlock asked as they approached her office.

“Since she visited?” John frowned. “Well, she came once at the hospital, but you weren’t conscious.”

Sherlock missed a step. “She hasn’t been around? At all?”

He almost sounded disappointed – more at the thought of being wrong than at the lack of visits, John guessed.

“No,” he said patiently, “she hasn’t come to the flat. She might have heard how much of a prat you are to anyone who does. But you did see her last week, here. She had a body she thought you might be interested in.”

“Oh? What was it? Some rare disease?”

“Situs inversus incompletus.”

Sherlock stopped midstride. When John stopped and looked back at him, his expression was that of a child denied dessert.

“Are you telling me I had a look at the rarest arrangement of internal organs there is and I _forgot about it_?”

John nodded grimly. Of all things for Sherlock to be upset about…

Sherlock groaned. “Please tell me at least I took pictures!”

“Molly wouldn’t let you. Privacy laws and all that. She kept a close eye on you to make sure you wouldn’t, sad to say.”

No, this wasn’t just a child denied dessert. This was a child being told all the Christmas presents he’d just unwrapped would be returned to the store before he could even play with them.

Lowering his voice, John gave him a small smile. “She wasn’t watching me quite as closely.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened in excitement. Maybe Christmas wasn’t cancelled, after all. “You took pictures?”

“I’ll show you later. Let’s get a look at that leg, shall we?”

For the next few hours, John could almost have forgotten what a strange world he now lived in. Sherlock was… _Sherlock_ , in a way he hadn’t been in weeks. He wasn’t quite as dismissive with Molly as he had once been, but his attitude had changed after his return, long before the illness, so that wasn’t much of a surprise. He analyzed some minute particle of dirt that had been lodged under the big toe of the first leg, compared it to a sample he’d taken, unbeknownst to John and probably to Greg, from the second leg, and by six o’clock, when he strode into New Scotland Yard, all he was missing were extravagant feathers to complete his strutting peacock impersonation. This being July, he didn’t even have his coat for dramatic effect.

It all came to a crashing halt when Donovan questioned his findings, implying that his illness put a question mark over anything he said.

“My _illness_ is over,” Sherlock replied, his eyes darkening along with his voice. “It has no more relevance on this case than the bout of flu you endured last winter. I hardly need to know what I had for lunch yesterday to see and observe what you have always been too blind to notice. I always thought it was Anderson distracting you from doing your job properly, but maybe you’re just not that good at what you do.”

“Sherlock,” John sighed. “Not good.”

Sherlock’s icy stare turned to John. “What is not good? Mentioning someone’s personal life when they’ve just referred to my medical history is only replying in kind. And if dearest Sally here could do what I do, I wouldn’t be here in the first place, would I?”

“Knock it off,” Greg said, raising his voice, when Donovan stepped forward to confront Sherlock. “Donovan, go get that warrant. And in the future I don’t want to hear a word about confidential information you read in tabloids.”

He waited until she’d left the room, clearly in a fury, before he addressed Sherlock in a lower tone. “As for you, do me a favor and put this in your notebook. Don’t talk about Anderson. At the end of the day, you’re the reason he lost his job, so have some decency.”

Sherlock sneered. “How was it my fault exactly? I wasn’t even there! Or are you going to tell me he was suffering from hallucinations? He saw me everywhere, did he? Saw a dead man every time he turned his head, heard his voice when no one else talked, and couldn’t manage to silence him even to save his job. Even if that were true, it’s hardly my fault, and regardless, anyone with any degree of intelligence can recognize hallucinations for what they are and ignore them. Look at me.”

Halfway through Sherlock’s little speech, John started to have suspicions. Hallucinations were one symptom from sleep deprivation, and Sherlock had been awake longer than at any time since coming out of the hospital. By his last words, John knew for sure.

Worse, Greg knew, too.

“You’re done here,” he said with a shake of his head. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. You’re right that you see things none of us do. But if you have hallucinations, even if you know that’s what they are, how can I trust anything you say?”

Sherlock blinked, apparently realizing he’d said too much. He tried to backpedal. “Of course I don’t have—”

“Sherlock,” John said quietly, touching his arm. “You’ve given them plenty to work with. Time to go.”

He didn’t argue, but he sulked all the way back to Baker Street, refusing to answer when John asked if he was still seeing or hearing someone who wasn’t there.

A dead man, he’d said, and John couldn’t believe he’d still been talking hypothetically. Who, then? The first thought that came to John’s mind was Moriarty, but he’d be damned before asking if he was right.

Back at the flat, he didn’t bother suggesting Sherlock should get some sleep, and instead handed him the notebook that served as his diary, along with a pen.

“Yes,” Sherlock said darkly. “I should write down that the word ‘hallucinations’ is now banned from my vocabulary.”

Sitting across from him, John observed him for a little while. It’d been such a good day… Was it why John hadn’t noticed something was off? Or had Sherlock been hiding it too well?

“Sherlock?” he said softly, and waited until his friend had raised his head to look at him before he continued. “I need to know when you see things that aren’t there.”

Sherlock glared at him. “So you can demand I return home even when I’m in the middle of something important? No, thanks, I’ll pass.”

“So I can take care of you,” John corrected. “That’s what I’m here for. If you don’t let me, how am I supposed to help?”

Closing the notebook and holding it on his lap, Sherlock considered John for a few seconds, no longer angry, but clearly troubled.

“I don’t understand why you even do this in the first place,” he complained. “Before, it was about the chase. About needing a bit of danger back in your life. What’s dangerous about playing nurse to someone who, by your estimation, is the biggest prat in London?”

“The most humble one, too,” John said with a half-smile, but dropped it when Sherlock didn’t smile back. “You’re my friend. You’re getting better every day. This was your first case in more than a month and you burned through it in just a few hours. Who knows, before another month has passed you’ll have me running over London’s roofs with a gun in hand. And maybe in a couple months you’ll thank me for sticking around even when you’re being a prat.”

“The _biggest_ prat,” Sherlock insisted very seriously before finally offering John a lopsided smile, and maybe, just maybe, it was something like an apology.


	7. October 5th - Sherlock

Behind Sherlock, John closes the door of the flat. The sound is so final, it makes Sherlock’s skin crawl, makes him feel claustrophobic, suddenly, more so than he’s felt in a long time. He can’t stand the idea of going up to the flat now. He needs air. He needs space. He needs to not be here.

Whirling around, he almost runs smack into John before sidestepping and reaching for the door handle.

“Sherlock?” John, despite his tiredness, sounds alarmed. “What’s going on? Where are you going?”

“Just for a walk,” Sherlock says, hating that he has to give counts to anyone about what he does but understanding the necessity of it. It’s hard not to understand, not when he woke up at New Scotland Yard six hours ago and was offered a crash course on what his own life is like, these days.

“I’ll come with you,” John says, rather predictably.

Part of Sherlock wants to be glad at that offer for company. After all, when he woke up it was with the vague feeling that he was going to be late for his lunch with John. To find him there, to learn he was back in the flat, back with Sherlock – and truly _with_ him in a way Sherlock hadn’t dared imagine – that was the one bright side to this whole mess.

At the same time, though, this is all too new, too raw. The words on Sherlock’s chest feel true. In any case, he can’t imagine agreeing to having them inked permanently into his skin if he wasn’t absolutely sure of their truth. But maybe these words, right now, make everything a little more painful, a little harder to bear.

“Please.” The word scrapes his throat. “I want… I _need_ to be alone.”

John’s brow furrows into a frown, but his tone remains gentle. “Sherlock, that’s not a good idea.”

“What are you afraid of?” Sherlock’s voice starts to rise in his annoyance, but a quick look from John toward 221A reminds him that it’s very early, too early to wake Mrs. Hudson. He continues more quietly, although just as strongly. “I just woke up. I’m hardy going to fall asleep while walking.”

John licks his lips briefly, his frown softening, but not much. “I know you’re upset,” he starts, and Sherlock can’t bear to hear another word. Throwing the door open, he walks out and starts down the street without looking back to see if John is following. He shoves his hands in the pockets of his coat and takes long strides. The sidewalk still gleams wetly from the rain, and reflects the light from the lamps lining the street. Little by little, the sky lightens above Sherlock, and the lamps start to flicker off. London wakes up to a gray, damp October morning. 

In Sherlock’s mind, it’s still June.

Without realizing what he’s doing, he lets his steps take him to Regent’s Park. So early in the morning, so late in the season, there aren’t many people there other than a few dedicated joggers. Sherlock takes in as much as possible about each person he crosses paths with, working on lightning-fast deductions, but the relief they offer is ephemeral. He tries not to think about anything that happened after he woke, but he’s never been able to shut down his brain, not without the help of illegal substances, so it all swirls in his head, a whirlwind that leaves everything in shambles. 

The tattoo on his arm. He can deal with that reality. It’s not like he can do anything about it. The way he sees it, there are two choices, really. Live with his amnesia, or die. If he’s lived four months like this already, there’s no reason to stop now.

The tattoos on his chest. He thought John had lost his mind when he took Sherlock by the wrist, led him to the closest loo at NSY, and unbuttoned his own shirt while asking Sherlock to do the same. But those words explain how Sherlock has managed to wake up to the same day over and over for four months without throwing himself off a roof.

The photos on the wall in the conference room. Lestrade’s tired face. Hearing his own deductions being explained back at him. And then the flash of insight, that car ride across town and what they found there.

With a grunt, he stops abruptly in the middle of the path, raises both hands to his head and grips his hair hard, as though by tugging violently enough he can pull all those thoughts right out of his mind.

It doesn’t work, of course not, but his mind does turn extraordinarily quiet when two arms wrap around his chest from behind while a body presses tightly against his back.

For a second, no more than two, his instincts tell him to pull away, break free, strike at his attacker.

But it’s not an attack. He already knows that. He already knows whose arms, whose body they are. And while he can’t remember ever being hugged like this, not by anyone, or even wanting such contact, it still feels oddly familiar – and oddly soothing.

“Come home, love,” John whispers against the nape of his neck. “Please.”

Sherlock drops his arms to his sides and bows his head; it’s the second time, today, that he’s defeated. This time is less painful than the first.

John holds on to his hand all the way back to the flat. He holds on tightly, as though afraid Sherlock will pull free and flee. Sherlock wants to do no such thing, though, not when he’s so busy memorizing the feel and texture and strength of John’s palms and fingers – so busy pretending he doesn’t know he’ll forget all this soon, and probably forgot it many times already.

“I’d like for you to take me to bed,” he says as John unlocks the front door. His voice doesn’t waver, but he still feels his cheeks heat up.

John turns back with an expression of surprise that soon shifts to something softer, something sad. He’s still holding on to Sherlock’s hand. He pulls it up to his mouth and just brushes his lips to Sherlock’s knuckles. They ache from when he punched a wall earlier.

“Come on,” he says, and Sherlock isn’t sure if that’s agreement or not.

They walk up the familiar steps and enter the flat still linked by ten entwined digits. They have to separate to take off coat and jacket, but soon enough John takes Sherlock’s hand again in a movement that feels so practiced it makes Sherlock’s heart ache a little.

The flat is dark but they find their way to the bedroom easily enough.

“Take off your shoes,” John murmurs, toeing off his own. 

Sherlock does as he’s told, all the while watching John step into the bathroom where he turns on the light and the shower – letting the water warm up, Sherlock realizes. When John comes back, Sherlock’s fingers are working at the buttons of his shirt, though they’re trembling too much to make much progress. He feels stupid and slow. He asked for this, didn’t he? He wants this. He wants to stop thinking. So why are his hands shaking?

John takes over, squeezing Sherlock fingers between his before finishing to unbutton his shirt, then his trousers. Soon, Sherlock stands naked in the middle of his bedroom - _their_ bedroom, it has to be – and it’s not just his hands that are shaking anymore. It’s been a long time since he’s done this. And even longer since he did it with someone he cared about, although even then it wasn’t as much as he cares about John.

He waits for John to undress, waits for a touch, a kiss, something, anything at all. What he gets is a smile and quiet words.

“Go on. Get in the shower.” And after a brief pause, “I’ll be right there.”

Belatedly, Sherlock wonders how long it’s been since his last shower. He doesn’t stink, but he doesn’t smell all that fresh, either. Of course John would want him to clean up before they do anything. Of course. Why is Sherlock so damn slow today? Too slow. Much too slow.

The water feels scalding when he first steps under the spray, but only because not that long ago he was walking outside in the cold. He stands there, eyes closed, head bowed, letting the water pound against the back of his neck.

When John slips past the curtain and steps into the tub, Sherlock is aware of it, but he still shudders when a cool hand settles on his hip and tugs lightly.

“Turn around for me. There you go.”

Sherlock faces the wall, now, and waits for what comes next, feeling extraordinarily out of his depth. Whatever he expected, it’s not the feel of shampoo being poured onto his head, or firm hands washing his hair.

“This would be a lot easier if you weren’t so bloody tall,” John mutters good-naturedly, his fingers digging into Sherlock’s scalp hard enough to draw a hum from him. “You know, I never felt short until I met you. Thanks ever so much for that.”

Sherlock feels the beginning of a smile trying to tug at his lips, but it fades quickly.

He asked for intimacy, and in a way that’s what John is giving him, but it’s not what Sherlock thought would happen. It’s like they’re acting a play, but John is the only one who got a script, and Sherlock is supposed to improvise every line or reaction.

“Is this… Is this something we do often?” he asks after John has pushed his head back under the spray and rinsed off the shampoo. He turns to face him, opening his eyes for the first time and taking in every line of John’s body. He swallows hard.

“Often enough,” John says as he lathers a bar of soap between his hands. “Usually under better circumstances.”

His hands return to Sherlock, one on each shoulder, and it doesn’t feel so much about soaping him up as it does about massaging him. Sherlock watches John’s face as he works, wanting to touch back but never raising a hand. He’s not sure if he just doesn’t dare to or if he’s loath to interrupt John. Maybe both.

Very methodically, John washes Sherlock’s chest and abdomen, and his hand is a little gentler when he touches the words over his heart. Sherlock’s arms next, one after the other, from shoulder and armpit all the way to Sherlock’s hands, which get scrubbed clean, palms and fingers. John crouches next, and Sherlock’s breath hitches in his throat when gentle fingers rub at his thighs and calves. 

John’s face is mere inches from Sherlock’s cock, but even that causes no more than feeble sparks in his groin. Sherlock feels his face warm up, and it has nothing to do with the hot water sluicing them both.

“John, I…” His voice breaks, and he has to try again. “I’m so—”

“Shh,” John cuts in quietly as he stands again. “You don’t have to say anything. Turn around.”

Sherlock does, and those same marvelous hands that scrubbed every inch of his front now rub against his back, ever so tender against the scars there. Sherlock wonders if John ever asked about them; and if he did ask, did Sherlock answer truthfully?

Yes. John would have asked the first time he saw, and Sherlock wouldn’t have lied, not to him, not about that.

Would he?

It’s suddenly paramount for him to know, to be sure he didn’t lie.

“Did I ever tell you how I got those?”

John’s hands still, then come around to encircle Sherlock, much like they did in the park. John’s mouth presses to Sherlock’s back, moving along one of the long lines there. 

“Yes,” he whispers. “Yes, you did. You beautiful, crazy genius.”

Something rocks Sherlock's body; he couldn’t say if it’s a stifled laugh or an aborted sob.

They stay like this for a little while, and Sherlock is acutely aware of the half-hard cock pressing against his arse – acutely aware as well that his own cock isn’t even half-hard. It doesn’t matter, he decides. He can just lie on his stomach, or get on his hands and knees, and John won’t even have to look at it. He’s not sure when it became about John, about giving something to John rather than trying to quiet his mind. It doesn’t matter either.

When the water starts cooling down, Sherlock shuts it off and they step out of the tub together. Without a word, they dry each other before returning to the bedroom. Sherlock’s nervousness, chased away by John’s loving hands, returns stronger than earlier, and his heart stutters as he watches John approach the night table and open the drawer.

“Do you trust me?” John asks as he faces Sherlock again.

Unable to form words, Sherlock nods. Then he looks down, and realizes John isn’t holding what Sherlock expected. In one hand, he has a glass of water. In the other, two small, round white pills.

“Take those?” he requests.

Sherlock hesitates for a second – but really, why? Didn’t he just confirm that he trusts this man?

He swallows the pills, chasing them down with a gulp of water, and only then does he ask, “What are they?”

John takes the glass from him and sets it down before climbing into bed. He holds the covers open, patting the mattress to invite Sherlock to join him.

“Sleeping pills,” he says softly. “You’re going to go to sleep, and when you wake up today will be gone. It won’t ever have happened.”

Sherlock watches him for long seconds before climbing in. He lies there, on his back, hands knitted together on his stomach, confused and aching somewhere deep inside his chest.

“Okay?” John asks after a moment.

“I won’t remember it,” Sherlock says, “but you will.”

“I will,” John repeats, throwing an arm across Sherlock’s chest. “I remember everything that you can’t, because I’m your memory, now. Anything you need to know, I can tell you. And what you don’t need to remember, I can make it disappear. I can delete it for you.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “How is that fair?” he asks. “How is that fair for you? You get to remember I failed, and I—”

“No,” John cuts in, his arm tightening ever so slightly. “You didn’t fail. You’re human, Sherlock. I know you don’t like to be reminded of that tragic fact, but I assure you, you are human. And there’s only so much you can demand from your body before _it_ fails _you_.”

Sherlock wants to argue that’s the same thing, but his mind feels slow and he yawns widely. His eyes close. There was something else, though. Something nagging at him. Oh, yes…

“You didn’t take me to bed,” he mumbles. “I wanted you to take me to bed.”

John’s body shakes as he laughs quietly.

“We are in bed, aren’t we?” he replies, and nudges Sherlock until he rolls onto his side, immediately pressing his body along Sherlock’s back.

“But… sex.”

In Sherlock’s mind, it’s a full sentence, a question, a protest, an offer. Maybe John understands because he kisses Sherlock’s shoulder.

“We’ll have sex when we both want it,” he whispers. “Now sleep, love. We need rest.”

Sherlock drifts off with a word of love still on his tongue.


	8. August 15th - John

John was growing more worried every day.

For the past two months, things had progressively been getting better. Sherlock’s memory wasn’t improving one bit, of course not. The odds for that were infinitesimal, and John had talked himself out of hoping for a miracle. He’d already had one of those when Sherlock had come back; asking for two would have been downright greedy. 

Still, Sherlock’s day to day life – and by extension John’s – was getting easier.

The tattoo and diary had helped tremendously. Combined, they allowed Sherlock to understand and accept his condition in just moments, and John didn’t have to rip his own heart out anymore every day or so by telling him about it all.

It also helped that Sherlock’s sleep patterns were returning to normal – which meant, they weren’t normal at all. He now usually remained awake for two or three days in a row before he grew tired and went to bed. Twice, while on a case, he’d gone up to four days, although the possibility of hallucinations and worse made John deeply uneasy.

The cases themselves were helpful. Every time John sat there and watched Sherlock as he read his diary, he could tell the exact moment when Sherlock started reading about ‘The Work’. The moment when he realized that the one thing he valued above all else was still within his grasp, even if his immediate memories weren’t. That was the moment when his body relaxed and John could read on his features what he imagined was relief.

But all this progress seemed to have come to a grinding halt. For the past few days, regardless of whether Sherlock caught some sleep or not, he seemed to be plagued with hallucinations. He refused to admit it was happening at all, of course. Whenever John caught him muttering under his breath or staring at nothing, he claimed he was just talking to himself or thinking. John could almost have believed him if his mood had not been increasingly more volatile.

That very morning, when John had climbed down from his room, he’d found Sherlock ready to leave and annoyed that John was slowing him down. John was actually surprised Sherlock hadn’t run off on his own. He was not, on the other hand, surprised that Sherlock, as anxious as he was to be on his way, had not deigned to bother preparing either coffee or tea for John. Some things would never change.

When they’d first walked in at Bart’s – and oh, how John hated to be back here – Molly had been pleased to see them. She’d apparently texted Sherlock with the news that she had a body he might be interested in. After less than ten minutes in Sherlock’s company, however, her smile seemed a lot more strained. After twenty minutes, she started throwing John confused looks, as though to ask him what was going on with Sherlock. It’d have been hard for her not to notice he kept hushing some unseen person in the room, and berating them about whatever they were saying about Molly. John was debating whether to suggest they go home for Sherlock to get a bit of sleep – even though he’d only been up for a little over a day – when things took a drastic turn.

As Molly stepped aside to weigh the brain she had just removed from the cranium, Sherlock seized the scalpel off the tray and hurled it at the wall, shouting, “No she didn’t!”

Molly yelped and leaped nearly a foot in the air. John, who had been observing the proceedings from beside the door, hurried forward at once, placing himself between Sherlock and Molly, both hands raised palm out in front of him.

“Sherlock?” he said in as calm a tone as he could muster. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

“Shut up!” Sherlock shouted, but the words, like the surgical saw Sherlock took from the tray, were thrown at the wall again. “Shut up or I swear to God I will burn you. Burn the heart out of you, like you said. Only I’ll do it for real.”

If John had harbored any doubts about whose ghost was in the room with them, they’d have vanished at those words.

“He’s dead, Sherlock,” John said, taking a cautious step toward him, then another. “Bullet to the brain, right on the roof of the very same hospital you’re standing in. Remember that?”

Sherlock turned wild eyes toward him. They were circled by shadows deep enough to look like bruises. How could he look so tired when he’d been sleeping so recently?

Unless…

John’s throat tightened as he realized Sherlock had tricked him. Of course he had. It was hardly the first time, after all, although as far as he knew it was the first time Sherlock had performed this particular stunt. The charade had been good, very good. Pretending to go to sleep in his bed instead of falling asleep on the sofa. Reading the diary every time he ‘woke’. Being careful to ask the same questions and not show he remembered things he shouldn’t…

Only Sherlock Holmes would be so damn clever. And so damn stupid at the same time. John didn’t know whether to yell at him or simply roll his eyes.

“How long have you been awake?” he asked, but Sherlock wasn’t listening. His attention was back on the wall – back on his hallucination.

“No she didn’t,” he said again, pleading now. When he looked at Molly through those crazed eyes, she gasped. “Say it’s not true,” he demanded. “Say you didn’t help him.”

“Help… help who?” she all but squeaked.

Sherlock pointed at the wall with a shaky hand. “Him! Your old boyfriend! He says you helped him fake his death, too. Say you didn’t, Molly. Say it!”

He ended on a shout that clearly frightened Molly. 

“Say what?” she whimpered. “I don’t understand!”

With a wordless cry, Sherlock banged his fist against the tray of instruments, sending them all to the floor. Molly rushed toward the door. Sherlock reached it before her and pushed her back. Caught by surprise by both their actions, John was too late to catch her as she fell back. She hit the floor hard, her head striking the foot of the examination table.

Cursing under his breath, John knelt next to her and cupped the back of her head. He was relieved not to find blood, but she’d surely get a nasty bump.

“I’m okay,” she mumbled as he helped her sit up. “I’m fine. Really.”

“You’re going to A&E,” John told her firmly, then turned a glare to Sherlock. “And _you_ are going home and straight to bed before you hurt anyone else, you bloody idiot!”

But Sherlock wasn’t looking at John, nevermind listening to him. His eyes were back to that blank wall and he was shaking his head, lips moving on the same muttered words over and over.

“He wouldn’t. Not John. He wouldn’t.”

“Sherlock?” John said urgently, still kneeling by Molly. “Sherlock, look at me. He’s not there. I am. Look at _me_.”

With obvious difficulty, Sherlock tore his gaze away from what wasn’t there and looked at what was instead. When his eyes fell on Molly, they widened and he shook his head, taking a step back.

“I didn’t mean… Molly, I didn’t…”

“I’m fine,” she said with a wavering smile. “It’s okay, Sherlock. But I think you should listen to John and go home, maybe. Don’t you think?”

Sherlock shook his head again, taking another step backward until his back was to the door. Without another word, he opened it and ran out.

“Sherlock!”

John’s shout remained unanswered. He started to stand, but changed his mind as he considered Molly.

“I’ll walk myself to A&E,” she said. “Just go. Make sure he’s all right.”

John didn’t need her to repeat it. He ran after Sherlock, catching just a glimpse of him in the staircase. A rush of fear coursed through him and he ran faster. Why did it always have to end up there?

He reached the roof seconds after Sherlock and could have wept in relief when Sherlock was nowhere near the edge. Instead, he stood in the middle, pointing at the ground with a finger while he paced back and forth.

“Here. It was right here. I saw it. You’re dead. You couldn’t have faked that. There’s no way you could have faked that. I saw it. I saw it. _I saw it_!”

The last was an agonized shout as Sherlock grabbed his hair with both hands.

“Sherlock,” John said quietly. “You need to calm down. I need you to calm down. You’re scaring the hell out of me.”

Wide, bloodshot eyes settled on him. “John. Say it isn’t true, please.”

“It isn’t true,” John replied automatically as he took slow, cautious steps toward Sherlock. “I have no idea what he is telling you but I know one thing. That man was a liar, Sherlock. Alive or dead, he’s nothing more than a liar. I know that, and you know that. Don’t you?”

Sherlock lowered his hands. His eyes were gleaming with tears. “I don’t know anymore. He knows things. He knows everything. Some of it is true but what if all of it—”

“Does he know about Redbeard?” John asked, taking yet another step closer.

A jolt shook Sherlock’s body as though John had just hit him. He stared at John fixedly.

“How do you know—”

“Don’t ask me,” John tutted. “Ask Moriarty. Ask him what he knows about Redbeard.”

Sherlock didn’t say a word, but he turned his face slightly to John’s left, his eyes focusing on nothing.

“He knows,” Sherlock said brokenly. “How does he know? How do you know?”

“I don’t.” John raised a hand and curled his fingers around Sherlock’s wrist. “I have no idea who or what Redbeard is, because you wouldn’t tell me. You said if you couldn’t tell what was real or what wasn’t I should mention Redbeard. You said if whoever you saw knew about it, it proved that person was nothing more than a product of your mind. So now you tell me. Is Moriarty real?”

Sherlock looked at John, looked at the empty space next to him, then looked at John’s hand on his wrist, right below the tattoo exposed by his rolled sleeve.

“John, I think I need to go home,” he said, shaking.

“Yes, yes you do, you bloody idiot. Let’s go.”

John didn’t let go of Sherlock’s wrist as they went down and retrieved his jacket. He still didn’t let go in the cab that took them home. Only after closing the door of 221B behind them did he manage to let go and say, “You’re going straight to bed. On you go.”

Sherlock’s answer was a nod. He hadn’t said a word since the roof, although he sometimes mouthed words or shook his head. John followed him up to the flat, then into his bedroom. He stood by the door, arms crossed and staring fixedly at his shoes as Sherlock stripped down to his pants and climbed into bed.

“How long?” he asked then, walking over to the window to close the curtains.

“Nine days,” Sherlock murmured.

John clenched his fists twice. “Why?”

He knew the answer, but he needed to hear it.

“Data,” Sherlock said blankly. “I needed to know how long I could function.”

John snorted. “I don’t call this functioning, Sherlock. You’ve been seeing him for days, haven’t you?”

Sherlock was silent for so long that John thought he’d fallen asleep. 

“I could ignore him at first,” he finally said. “I knew he wasn’t there. But then…”

“Then he got harder to ignore,” John finished for him. “And you still didn’t think to yourself, ‘hey, maybe I should stop pretending and actually sleep.’”

“No. I told myself it was worth it if I got to remember a little longer.”

John sighed. “Remember what, Sherlock?”

“You. Remember that you live here now. That you… you take care of me. Even when I’m an idiot.”

The words were unexpected. Sherlock resented being ‘taken care of’ with a passion. He allowed it because he understood it was necessary, but he was vocal in expressing how much he hated it. And now this…

“You are an idiot,” he said gruffly as he walked to the door. “Sleep, now.”

“Could you…”

John paused and looked back. Sherlock was little more than a shadow buried under the sheets at the far end of the bed.

“Could I what?”

“Stay? It’s easier to ignore him if you’re there.”

John walked back over, toeing his shoes off and sitting on the bed with his back to the headboard.

“I’ll stay until you’re asleep,” he said quietly. “And then you’ll have a nice, long rest. And when you wake up I am going to yell at you until I lose my voice and it’s going to feel so, so very good.”

Sherlock shifted under the sheets, turning to face John.

“You’re going to yell at me for something I won’t remember?”

“I most certainly will. And once you’re sufficiently traumatized I’ll make you write about it in your diary so you won’t play that stupid game ever again.”

“Why not do it now?” Sherlock asked. “Get it over with.”

“Because I don’t fancy having to compete with a dead man for your attention. And because you should be sleeping already. Now shut up and close your eyes.”

Sherlock did close his eyes, but after only seconds he was speaking again.

“Threaten to leave,” he murmured. “If you want me to take you seriously, just say you’ll leave if I try this again.”

John opened his mouth, and closed it again without uttering a word. Was this it? The ultimate weapon against Sherlock’s stubbornness? A threat to leave him to his fate? John could never do it, but could he lie convincingly about it?

“You’d know it wasn’t true,” he said, trying to turn the words into a joke.

“No, I wouldn’t know,” Sherlock said, still as quietly. “It’d be the most terrifying threat. Why else would _he_ say it all the time?”

John didn’t have an answer to that. But he did know that, whenever they did have that talk, he wouldn’t hang that threat over Sherlock. Not for this, and not for anything. He’d be damned before he took a page from Moriarty’s book, even a Moriarty created by Sherlock’s subconscious.

It was only moments before Sherlock’s breathing evened out in sleep.

It was hours before John stood and left the room.


	9. September 27th - Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Working on earning that 'E' rating...

It comes out of nowhere. 

One second, Sherlock is going through the steps of an astonishingly complex deduction for Lestrade’s sake – although, judging by the DI’s expression, Sherlock will need to repeat all that, and slower, too. Tedious.

The next, he’s looking at John’s beaming face and it strikes him, like lightning out of clear blue skies. He’s allowed, now. Isn’t he?

It’s still terribly new. Only a little more than three days for Sherlock, less than a month for John. But it’s there, in the way John said “Brilliant”, in the way he looks proud of Sherlock, in that little glint in his eyes that’s all at once possessive and affectionate and maybe even a little turned-on.

Sherlock forgets where he is and what he’s doing. He forgets there are people around them – not just around them, but actively paying attention to Sherlock. He forgets he never asked who, if anyone, knows. Or maybe he just doesn’t care about any of it.

He stops mid-sentence and steps toe to toe with John. When he cups John’s face with slightly shaky hands, John’s expression softens, his smile a little shy all of a sudden, his eyes a little darker, pupils blown wide before Sherlock even leans in close. For a moment, their lips are close but not touching and they breathe the same air, share the same space, like a bubble suspended in the middle of New Scotland Yard keeping the rest of the world at bay. John breaks the tension by raising a hand to the back of Sherlock’s head. It settles at the nape of his neck with an intense familiarity, fingers tangling into Sherlock’s curls.

All it takes is a light pressure from John’s hand and their mouths come together for a chaste kiss. Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed and he focuses on the feel of John’s lips against his. They’re as soft as he ever imagined – and oh, how often he’s imagined this… He’s lost count of how many times he watched John’s tongue flick out between those lips, an unconscious gesture that nonetheless rarely failed to make Sherlock’s heartbeat jump. He had all the pains in the world not giving himself away. But now… now he doesn’t need to hide anymore.

That very same tongue now traces the seam of Sherlock’s lips, seeking entrance. Before Sherlock can grant it, a loud cough behind him breaks the moment. They come apart immediately, hands falling away. Sherlock blinks a few times. John is still smiling, but his cheeks are flushed. Sherlock suspects it’s as much from arousal as embarrassment. Lestrade coughs again.

“Could we go back to the murders?” he asks, arms crossed and gaze pointedly directed at the evidence bags spread out on the conference room table.

Next to him, Donovan is hardly as discreet. She stares openly, frowning. One look at the conference room window and into the world of desks beyond makes it clear she’s not the only one.

Sherlock doesn’t care what she – or anyone else – thinks about him, be it his interest in crime or his choice of romantic partner. But he has no clue if he made John uncomfortable, no frame of reference to know what he thinks right now, so he turns a questioning look toward him. John’s eyes are crinkled from smiling so much. He places a hand to the small of Sherlock’s back and gently directs him back toward the table.

“Work comes first,” he murmurs, low enough that only Sherlock will hear.

It’s a terrible innuendo… or is it a promise?

Sherlock goes back to his deduction, asking Lestrade where he got lost and easily slipping back into the flow. As focused as he is on what he’s doing, however, he can’t help but be aware of Donovan’s continued, intense staring. He tries to ignore her the best he can, but it’s not as easy as usual and when he’s led Lestrade to the obvious conclusion of their case, he can’t help but turn a sneer to Donovan.

“Anything you want to say?” he asks.

She huffs. “Nothing I’ve never said before.”

“Donovan,” Lestrade says warningly, even as John steps closer, until his shoulder is pressed to Sherlock’s. The expression on his features is closed off when moments ago he was so happy, and Sherlock’s annoyance only climbs a little higher.

“We don’t require your blessing,” Sherlock says archly.

“Well, you don’t have it,” she says with a snort. “Like it’s not bad enough he’s all but giving up his life for—”

“Donovan!” Lestrade interrupts, louder now. “Cut it out.”

“Yes, cut it out,” John says in his hardest, coldest voice. “You’ve said your piece before and I already told you it doesn’t concern you.”

“But how can you _stand_ it?” she asks, ignoring their requests to move on, and Sherlock is startled by the look of sheer sympathy she casts upon John. “He has no clue he’s done this before. How can you have a relationship with someone who doesn’t—”

“Enough!” Lestrade glares for all he’s worth. “Donovan. We’ve got work to do and it doesn’t include casting judgment on our consultants. Are we clear?”

“I’m not casting judgment,” she protests. “I just don’t understand—”

“No one’s asking you to,” John says, at the same time as Lestrade says again, “Are. We. Clear?”

She falls silent and nods once. Lestrade turns to Sherlock.

“Thank you,” he says pointedly. “We’ll take it from here.”

Although still troubled by Donovan’s reaction, Sherlock refocuses on the matter at hand. “What? No, I want to come. You lot are capable of losing your case even now.”

With a roll of his eyes, Lestrade huffs. “I never thought I’d say this, but your continued obnoxiousness is a comfort. Go home. You look exhausted. I’ll let John know how this all ends so you can put it in your journal.”

After a parting nod, he drags Donovan out. Sherlock watches them leave with a frown.

“Ready to go home?” John asks quietly.

Blinking, Sherlock turns his gaze to him. “I’ve done this before,” he says, and it’s not a question. “Kissed you at an inappropriate time in front of them. Haven’t I?”

A thin, strained smile stretches John’s lips. “We’ve giggled at crime scenes. Kissing was just the next step.”

Sherlock winces. “Not good?”

Shaking his head once, John reaches for Sherlock’s hand and entwines their fingers. “I don’t mind,” he says. “I really don’t. Lestrade was a bit miffed the first time, but more because you were ignoring the crime scene than anything else. As for the others… sod them. Like you said, we don’t need anyone’s blessing.”

The last of it comes with a little too much force. Sherlock adds up this contained anger, the way John’s fingers have curled around his own, and Donovan’s words. She wasn’t objecting to the principle of two men together, or to an ill-timed kiss. She feels sorry for John. Maybe six months ago she’d have felt sorry he had fallen for a ‘psychopath’. Today, she’s sorry for him because he’s with someone who’s convinced their first kiss happened five minutes ago even when he knows it’s not true.

The worst part is, she’s not entirely wrong.

“How long?” he asks, his heart clenching painfully. “How long until you realize she’s right and this isn’t what you want? How can this go anywhere when I force you through the same motions over and over? This isn’t a relationship, it’s an infinity loop and you’re the one trapped in it.”

“Right,” John says grimly. “Clearly you’ve been tricking me for four months and I have no idea what your condition is like, because obviously I’m an idiot.”

“I didn’t say—”

“Not today,” John cuts in. “But you’ve said it before. And you aren’t the only one. And you know what? This is one conversation I could do without having over and over. Luckily I know just the thing for that. Come on, we’re getting out of here.”

He strides out of the room like a man marching to battle, pulling Sherlock after him. Sherlock can’t deny that this kind of forcefulness, coming from this particular man, is a turn on, but he does offer a token protest at being dragged by the hand like a child. John’s answer is to roll his eyes at him. He doesn’t let go.

They remain hand in hand in the cab, and all the way to a familiar tattoo shop on the other side of town. Only when he has to undress does John release Sherlock’s hand, but Sherlock remains close, his eyes wide and his heart beating too fast under the two fingers rubbing absently as his chest. He just heard John tell Leo what he wants inked into his skin, but he still finds it hard to believe. 

“Wait,” Leo says just as he’s about to apply the stencil. “Was I supposed to invert the letters?”

John raises a questioning eyebrow at Sherlock. The question he’s asking isn’t whether the letters should be reversed. He wants to know if Sherlock understands what he’s doing here. All Sherlock has to do is prove that he does.

“No,” he says, his voice a little rough. “It’s not supposed to be read in a mirror.”

John nods once. He doesn’t say the words aren’t for him, they’re for Sherlock. At this point, he hardly needs to.

Only four words, direct and to the point very much like John himself is, but it seems to take Leo an inordinate amount of time to trace the letters – not that Sherlock has any idea how long this usually takes. Or maybe it just feels too long because Sherlock doesn’t like the way John’s mouth is pressed into a pale, thin line. He never did like to see John in pain – physical or otherwise.

It’s the middle of the afternoon when they get out of the shop. Sherlock can’t take his eyes off John. He’s walking with his chest ever so slightly puffed out, and with a satisfied smile. In the cab that’s taking them home, Sherlock manages to order his thoughts just enough to ask, “Why?”

John looks at him straight on.

“When you had the first one done on your arm, you said it would help you accept it as truth, and I’ve never had to explain your diagnosis to you again. When you put the ones on your chest, you said you did it because it’s something you should never question. But you do. I don’t give a damn if anyone else questions why I’m choosing to be with you, but I. Can’t. _Stand it_ when you question it too. So you tell me. Can you believe now that I’ve thought about it, that I know what I’m doing and have no intention to take any of it back?”

His eyes gleam with an intensity that steals Sherlock’s breath, and suddenly there’s nothing he wants more than to kiss John again. So he does, and if it starts as gently as at NSY, it soon turns heated enough that the cabbie asks them to cool down.

They do, but with a look that’s a promise. And indeed, as soon as they step into the flat, before Sherlock even has a chance to shrug out of his coat, John is pressing him against the wall and kissing him again and _oh_ , that wasn’t how Sherlock imagined it’d go but that works, too. It works quite well. John’s body is one strong, urgent line pressing along Sherlock’s, as insistent as his tongue slipping in to find Sherlock’s.

When he smiles into the kiss, John feels the change and pulls back, giving him an amused look.

“Something funny?” he asks, stepping back far enough that he can shrug out of his jacket.

Sherlock follows his example.

“Not funny per se. Just… unexpected. I didn’t think you’d be so…”

“Hands on?” John suggests, demonstrating by putting said hands on Sherlock to remove his suit jacket.

They make it to the bedroom, leaving a trail of discarded clothes behind them.

“Is this…” It’s surprisingly hard to think with John’s mouth at the crook of his neck. “Is this how it always goes?”

One push of John’s hands, and Sherlock lets himself fall back onto the bed, shifting his hips to help when John tugs off his trousers – then his pants, after a light squeeze to Sherlock’s hardened prick.

“Does it matter?” John asks as he finishes to undress himself.

Sherlock props himself onto his elbows to watch him, forgetting to answer the question as he takes in every inch of John’s body, from the way his cock juts out in front of him, thick and flushed, to the star-shaped scar on his shoulder, to the words now revealed as John removes the wrapping from his chest.

“I could spend hours just watching you,” he breathes, and while he hadn’t meant to voice the words, he’s not sorry when they bring a smile to John’s lips.

“You have,” John says as he climbs onto the bed, straddling Sherlock’s lap. “Hours upon hours. You’ve examined and touched and kissed every last bit of me. And you’ll do it again, I’m sure.”

The whole experience is eerie. From memories shelved long ago, Sherlock knows the first time can be awkward as two bodies, two mouths, two sets of hands get acquainted with each other. He feels none of that, though. His hands are resting on John’s thighs, immobile not because he doesn’t dare to do more but simply because that much of a contact is already overwhelming. John’s weight is comfortable, anchoring him. His fingers, when they take hold of Sherlock’s cock and press it against his own, never hesitate and feel incredibly familiar.

The feel of hot, hard flesh against equally hot, hard flesh sends sparks along Sherlock’s spine. He moans quietly, his hips snapping up of their own accord, pushing his cock into John’s hand and along his own prick. John gasps in reply, then lower himself onto his forearm so that their cocks are trapped between their bellies while his mouth brushes against Sherlock’s.

“To answer your question,” he says quietly, each word like a kiss, “no, it’s not always like this.” He thrusts gently against Sherlock, their cocks moving against each other. Sherlock grabs his hips, pulling him tighter. “The first time, we did this. Just this. And kisses. Lots and lots of kisses.”

He demonstrates with a toe-curling kiss that makes Sherlock’s mind feel light, makes his cock feel like it’s burning.

“The second time,” John continues, pressing a line of kisses along Sherlock’s jaw and to the sensitive spot beneath his ear, “you fucked me so hard, I swear I saw fireworks.”

He punctuates that with a light bite. Sherlock’s eyes snap open – he’s not sure when they’d closed. Without thinking, he bucks, pushes, presses up and to the side, and John is now beneath him, their positions reversed as Sherlock’s hips jerk forward. A flash of pain on his face, and Sherlock remembers the fresh tattoo, and the sensitive skin he’s resting on. He pushes up, laying a small kiss to John’s chest like an apology.

“And the time after that, you fucked me, didn’t you?” he guesses in a low, rumbling voice, looking at John from beneath his eyelashes and bucking lightly against him.

“No,” John says with a half smile, cupping Sherlock’s face in his hand. “That time, I made love to you. I took you apart until you couldn’t say anything more than my name.”

A shiver runs through Sherlock. He can imagine that quite well.

“And the time after that,” John goes on, “I did fuck you. Your mouth first, and then your arse, and I’m fairly certain you enjoyed yourself.”

A laugh bubbles to Sherlock’s lips and he turns his face to press it into John’s palm.

“Plenty of things we’ve done,” John murmurs. “Plenty more we’ve yet to try. So you tell me. What do you want, Sherlock?”

As Sherlock looks at the man underneath him, at the declarations inscribed on his skin like a truth that can’t, won’t ever be deleted, the answer comes easily. What he wants is to make John happy. To give him however much he can, even if it’s nowhere near enough. To never grow tired of him – and for this, certainly, his illness will help, although Sherlock doubts he’d have ever become bored with John even with his full mind’s cooperation.

“Everything,” he says in a shaky voice. “I want everything.”

John grins up at him. “Good answer.”


	10. September 5th - John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one took longer than i'd have wanted, and it's still not exactly the way i wanted it to be. I hope it's enjoyable anyway.

Sherlock seethed all the way home, getting out of the cab and banging the door shut behind him before John had even come out. John sighed, paid the fare and went after his ill-tempered companion. 

His behavior was not, as such, anything new. Every time the three-day limit hit him in the middle of a case and Lestrade, on John’s request, refused to let him help anymore, Sherlock grew stroppy and sullen. In those moments, he was most like the man John had first met, years ago, whenever bouts of boredom had taken him.

He didn’t often get bored, these days; he didn’t have time to. But his anger at being taken off a case was just as bad. Still, the alternative was worse. 

As soon as he stepped in, he could hear the screeching of the violin upstairs. Mrs. Hudson was in the hallway, wringing her hands and casting worried looks up the staircase. She turned a questioning glance to John.

“Bad day, dear?”

John shrugged. “Tantrum. He didn’t solve the case in time.”

She patted his shoulder. “You have the patience of a saint,” she said, then returned to her flat.

John watched her door close and realized he was only delaying the inevitable. Bracing himself, he followed the sounds – they couldn’t be called notes, really – up to the flat. He was hardly a saint, but his reserves of patience had developed over the past months. He’d walked into this situation with his eyes wide open about what he was in for, and complaining now wouldn’t change anything.

He hung his jacket before walking into the sitting room as though walking to battle. He expected to have to shout over the continued painful cries Sherlock was drawing from his violin, but as soon as he stepped in Sherlock stopped and pointed the bow toward him.

“I’ll still solve it. I don’t need to be there. I won’t go to sleep until I’ve got the answer and there’s nothing you can do to force me.”

John bit his tongue rather than saying that yes, there actually was something he could do. Sherlock himself had handed him that weapon. John had never used it to date, nor did he plan to. Some threats simply should not be voiced.

“You’re right,” he said instead. “I can’t force you to do anything. But your brother thinks he can. If you step out of the flat again before getting a nice few hours of sleep, I guess we’ll see if he’s right.”

They’d never needed to go that far, but John and Mycroft had discussed it after Sherlock’s nine-day experiment. If it took an hypodermic needle and a sedative to get him to sleep when he needed it… well, Mycroft had no problem with tough love, and John could agree to it if it meant Sherlock didn’t have to listen to Moriarty tell him John would leave.

The look of pure outrage Sherlock gave him was almost comical. He came closer to John, still holding the violin in one hand and the bow in the other, and glared at him.

“For Mycroft to treat me like a child is one thing,” he said icily. “He’s never done anything else. But you? I thought you were my friend. Are you really no more than my nanny?”

It wasn’t a new conversation. John sighed.

“You don’t need a nanny, Sherlock. And if you did, I wouldn’t have volunteered for the job. You need someone who can remember what things are like when you go beyond your limits. Do you want to know what happened last time?”

Sherlock continued to glare, though he didn’t say anything.

“Last time,” John continued evenly, “you had a psychotic break. You were having hallucinations, both visual and auditory. You yelled at Molly. You got physical with her and came close to giving her a concussion. You climbed—” John’s voice started to waver and he struggled to firm it up again. “You climbed onto Bart’s roof and I swear to God, Sherlock. For a moment I thought you were going to jump. I don’t want to go through that again. If that means you’re going to get mad every time you don’t get to solve a case, frankly, I don’t care. I’d rather have you angry at me than psychotic.”

After holding Sherlock’s gaze for a few more seconds, John nodded once then retreated to the kitchen to set the kettle to boil. His hand was shaking as he pulled a mug from the cupboard. He never liked remembering that day, and how scared he’d been.

“Do you want some?” he asked without looking back, aware that Sherlock had followed him.

“Why three days?” Sherlock asked instead of answering. “Why not two, or four? Explain to me the logic behind this arbitrary number.”

Turning around, John leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms. Sherlock’s face was still pinched, but he wasn’t shouting, or glaring. That was at least something.

“The logic is simple,” John said. “Three days is when the hallucinations start.”

“It’s been three days.” Sherlock made a show of looking all around him. “No hallucinations.”

John’s mouth twisted into a bitter smile. “And you’d tell me if there was something, of course,” he said with a thick layer of sarcasm. “You’d never, ever lie to me about something like this. Or about anything else, really.”

The last part came out with a little too much heat and John snapped his mouth shut. He hadn’t meant to bring that up again, but judging by the guilty look that crossed Sherlock’s features, he knew exactly what John meant.

“I apologized,” Sherlock said quietly. “And you forgave me. Or were _you_ lying?”

John shook his head. “No. I wasn’t lying. I did forgive you. I’m sorry I said that. But it is still true that you have lied to me before, about important things. About sleeping. About hallucinations. And you damn well know I can never tell when you’re lying to me.”

The kettle clicked. John turned to it and poured two mugs. When he looked back, Sherlock was back in the sitting room, putting the violin away. John brought him a mug, and they each sat in their respective armchairs.

“I’m not lying,” Sherlock said after taking his first sip. “I haven’t seen or heard anything whose existence was questionable. Do you believe me?”

John took a long drink to give himself time to think. He hadn’t heard Sherlock mutter to himself, hadn’t seen him stare at blank spaces, and those were usually the first giveaways.

“I believe you,” he said at last, cautiously.

“So you will agree with me that the three-day rule, while prudent, is not always necessary. I could have kept working on the case and—”

“This time,” John cut in. “Maybe. But how long? Maybe in another couple hours you’d have seen—”

He stopped before saying Moriarty’s name and finished with a vague gesture instead. He wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t want to tell Sherlock what the hallucinations he knew about had been. He didn’t want to risk influencing what the next one might be.

“If I had, I would have told you.”

He couldn’t help a light snort at that. “No, you wouldn’t have.”

“With a good reason, I would. And if telling you when the hallucinations start was the condition to having more time to work case, it would be a good enough reason.”

“You say that now. Maybe you even mean it. But by the time the next case comes around you won’t remember this.”

“Which is what the diary is for.”

Sherlock practically bounded to his feet. He set the mug down and retrieved the diary from the sofa.

“I’ll put in there that I must tell you about hallucinations as soon as they happen and defer to your judgment,” he said, a pen already in hand. “And in exchange you’ll lift that ridiculous three days rule.”

“Wait a second,” John said, alarmed. “I didn’t agree to that. I know you, if I give you any leeway you’ll be running with it.”

Sherlock’s lips tightened to a thin line. He sat down again, one foot tapping impatiently.

“Before all this, I sometimes went a week with no sleep when on a really interesting case. I should get that much, barred hallucinations.”

“Before all this,” John said, imitating his tone, “I’d have told you the same thing I’m going to say now. As a doctor, it’s one of the most ridiculous things I’ve heard you say. And that’s saying something.”

Sherlock grimaced. “Six days, then. Six days and my promise to always tell you about hallucinations even if it means giving up on a really good case.”

John should have known better. He even told himself he knew better. But Sherlock was looking at him with such hope… It wasn’t often John got to make him happy. And if it meant Sherlock truly told him about hallucinations when they happened…

“Four days,” he said with a sigh. “But only if it’s for a case. The rest of the time, you’re still at three days tops.”

“Five days for a case, then.”

Hoping he wouldn’t regret it, John nodded. “Go ahead, then. Write it in. And then off to bed you go.”

“Not tired,” Sherlock muttered as he opened the notebook. “And I told you I want to solve that case.”

Honestly, John wasn’t even sure why he was surprised.

Three hours later, after much pacing and rambling about trajectory angles, velocity and patterns of splatter, Sherlock was giving Lestrade a triumphant call. Not even a text, but an actual call, “Because I want to hear him say he was wrong to send me away.”

Lestrade did not, in fact, say any such thing. Instead, he asked to talk to John, who confirmed that no, Sherlock wasn’t delirious, and John had no reason to believe his deductions might be flawed. Lestrade hung up with a mutter about checking it all out, and John handed the phone back to Sherlock.

“Now you really need to get some sleep,” he said as sternly as he could manage.

Sherlock didn’t even acknowledge his words. “What do you get out of this?” he asked, observing John closely. “The diary says you moved back in here as soon as I left the hospital. And that you separated from Mary shortly before that. Was moving in a way to escape married life?”

As he spoke, John’s body tensed, as though preparing for a blow. He didn’t like that there was a page about him in the diary – and he liked even less not knowing what was there exactly – but it wasn’t like he had a good reason to ask Sherlock not to write anything about him. 

“Escaping married life is called divorcing,” he said grimly. “And I’ve already done that, ta. What I get out of it is to help my friend. Isn’t it enough?”

He’d seen that look on Sherlock’s face before. He knew what it meant. And right now, it terrified him. He didn’t want Sherlock to deduce anything about his motives. They couldn’t go there. Not ever. He’d realized as much early on and he’d promised himself not to follow that trail. It couldn’t possibly lead to anything good, not with Sherlock’s mind being wiped away every few hours or every few days.

“No, I don’t think that’s enough,” Sherlock said thoughtfully, his eyes still narrowed as he observed John. “Friendship goes both ways. You’re rendering me a service of incommensurable importance, and in exchange you get… what? Me banging doors on you and arguing about my bedtime? I’ve often wondered why you accepted the things I do or say when no one before you cared to be around me more than absolutely necessary.”

“I don’t accept everything,” John said, but to his own ears the protest sounded weak. “When you act like an arse I call you on it. And I get mad at you for it. And…”

And he was grasping for words that wouldn’t come. He wanted to step back, flee the intensity of Sherlock’s stare, but he couldn’t move, like an insect pinned for scrutiny. Any second now Sherlock would cut him open and look inside.

“Two days ago,” Sherlock said, tilting his head to one side, “when we arrived at the crime scene, Officer Lawson called us ‘lovebirds’. You didn’t correct her. You didn’t roll your eyes or sigh or react in any way. According to the diary, I’ve observed five separate instances during which you said nothing even though your usual ‘we’re not a couple’ or ‘I’m not gay’ would have been the expected response.”

John’s heart felt like it was beating much too fast, suddenly. His mouth was dry. His feet were still rooted in place.

“Is there anything you’d like to tell me, John?” Sherlock continued, and John wasn’t sure whether he was imagining the light tremor in his voice or if it was truly there.

Shaking his head was the hardest thing he’d done in a long while.

“You should… You should go to sleep,” he said. “You’re talking nonsense.”

“Am I?” Sherlock took one step closer until he was crowding John’s personal space. “Your wife thought there was something between us, and she was arguably the person who knew you best after me. You said you weren’t gay and I always took you at your word. Then again I never heard you say you weren’t bisexual. Are you really sure you have nothing to tell me?”

John licked his lips and gave a tiny shake of head, more for his own benefit than for Sherlock. Whatever was happening here, nothing good would come out of it. Sherlock was who he was, who he’d been on June second, and he’d never be anything or anyone different. He hadn’t loved John then, and he’d never love him. It was as plain and simple as that.

“There’s nothing I can tell you that would change the way you feel,” he said, choking a little on the words when he realized he was confessing at the same time as he refused to do as much. “Whatever I say, you’ll forget when you go to sleep. When you wake up you’ll look at me and you’ll see your best friend. And I’ll do my very best to see the same thing.”

An eternity trickled by them. It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds, but time seemed to have stopped.

“What if,” Sherlock said, restarting the clocks. “What if I said that I have seen more than a best friend in you in quite a long time? What if I said coming back from my absence to find you engaged was harder to accept than your initial anger at me?”

He was scared, John was shocked to realize. That tremor in his voice… the way he blinked and would only meet John’s eyes for the briefest of instants before looking away again… the way he was confessing first without actually doing so…

Sherlock Holmes was scared.

Sherlock Holmes, who had virtually no filter between brain and mouth, was scared to say something.

Somehow, to know he was scared meant that John didn’t have to be anymore.

“If you said that,” he said very low, and raised a tentative hand to curl at the back of Sherlock’s neck, “then I’d say I love you.”

The beaming smile that bloomed on Sherlock’s lips was everything John could have hoped for, and it made it all worth it. Sherlock would forget, but John had said it at least once when he’d thought he never would, and it felt good just to have voiced the words, to have witnessed Sherlock’s reaction.

Or rather, it did feel good until Sherlock’s smile faded and his brow furrowed.

“I can’t forget,” was all he said before storming out of the flat. 

Stunned – and shattered – John needed a few seconds before reacting and running after him. He reached the street only in time to see a cab drive away, Sherlock sitting in the back. John was about to hail a second cab when it dawned on him he’d left his jacket and wallet upstairs. Cursing himself, he watched Sherlock’s cab until it had disappeared, trying, and failing, to make out the number. Rushing back upstairs, he picked up his phone and texted Sherlock, asking where he’d gone to.

Sherlock’s mobile chimed. It was on the desk.

There was only one thing to do. John dialed Mycroft’s number, and tried to make up a credible story on what had been going on before Sherlock decided to run without warning. He doubted he would fool Mycroft very long. He was too worried – and felt too much like an idiot – to really care.


	11. September 5th - Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took a while. I hope the chapter will prove to be worth the wait.

The cab leaves Sherlock right in front of the small shop. It’s been years since he helped exonerate the owner from murder charges after he was set up by a jealous lover, but he suspects he’s seen Leo fairly recently. After all, this is the only tattoo parlor he’s familiar with, and if it was his first thought today it must have been the first as well when he had his arm done.

As soon as he walks in, his suspicions are confirmed. Leo looks up from the work he’s doing on a man’s arm and smiles when he sees Sherlock.

“Hey, nice to see you again, mate. Have a seat. I’m almost done here, and the matching one on this lovely lady won’t take very long.”

The last is said with a wink to the woman sitting on the low couch by the window. She’s currently looking at the man under the tattoo gun with a frighteningly soppy expression. Nineteen. Uni student. Barrista on weekends. Only child of divorced parents. As for her companion… Thirty-one and well off, though he pretends to be younger and poorer when he’s with her. Works in an office, probably banking. Womanizer.

“Matching tattoos?” Sherlock says, shamming a wide smile as he sits near the girl. “How lovely. Do you think he’ll get one with his other girlfriend, too?”

The smile that she turned to him at his first words disappears in a blink. “What?”

“His other girlfriend,” Sherlock repeats, still smiling. “You know, the redhead he works with. The one he took to a restaurant last night before spending the night at her place.”

On the tattoo chair, the man lifts his head to look toward them, frowning. “Oi! What are you saying to my girl?”

His ‘girl’ is staring at Sherlock with wide eyes. “How do you know he works with a redhead?”

Sherlock doesn’t bother answering. Instead, he asks, “Did he tell you he was working late? That happens every week, doesn’t it? Every Friday?”

Two minutes later, the girl has stormed off, her soon to be ex-boyfriend running after her even though his tattoo isn’t finished. Leo, the tattoo gun still in hand, stares at the door as it closes behind them, then glares at Sherlock.

“What did you do that for?” he asks, setting the gun down and pulling his gloves off with a grimace of disgust. “What do you care if some guy is cheating on his girlfriend?”

“I don’t,” Sherlock replies with a shrug. “But I am in a hurry. Just charge me for what you lost when they left.”

Leo mutters a little more, but in the end he gives Sherlock the paper and marker he asks for, and starts preparing what he needs for Sherlock’s tattoo.

Sherlock’s hand shakes a little when he writes the first word; _John_. He can’t help but wonder how much time they’ve missed. First Sherlock was away for years, then John was married, then Sherlock’s memory complicated everything…

Although… Would they be here, today, with those confessions finally voiced, if Sherlock hadn’t needed someone to live with him, if John hadn’t agreed to be that someone? His amnesia is the most terrifying thing that ever happened to Sherlock, but in a way it brought him and John together.

And Sherlock never wants to forget that. He _needs_ not to forget that.

“Where are we putting this one, then?” Leo asks as he takes the paper Sherlock is handing him. His eyebrows shoot up when he reads the two lines, and he turns a teasing grin to Sherlock. “John, huh? That’s the bloke who came with you last time, isn’t it?”

Ignoring the second question, Sherlock answers the first instead. He first thought his right arm would work, a matching set to the left, but the words are for him, not anyone else, and he doesn’t need the Met gawping if he happens to roll up his sleeves while on a case. And the fact that he’ll end up with John’s name inked across his heart, well, that’s entirely coincidental, not at all some kind of sentimental act.

Or at least, that’s what he’s prepared to say should anyone ask.

“On my chest,” he says briskly, already shrugging out of his coat and jacket. “And I need you to reverse the words, so they can be read in a mirror.”

After a brief moment of confusion, Leo’s face lights up in understanding. His eyes flit toward Sherlock’s arm. “Oh, like in that movie, right? The one with the guy who loses his memory all the time?”

That’s a rather startlingly accurate description of Sherlock’s condition, enough so that it gives him pause. After a second, he shakes his head.

“No idea. Like I said, I’m in a hurry, so if we could get to it?”

It takes Leo over two hours to tattoo nine words. Sherlock suspects he’s taking his time because he’s annoyed Sherlock wouldn’t let him do some fancy script or add embellishments. Sherlock tried explaining that either of these things would make him doubt the truth of the words and that they have to be in his handwriting with nothing else there or there’s no point to even having the words tattooed on him, but Leo just doesn’t seem to understand. Still, grumbling or not, he does as he is asked, and when Sherlock finally takes a look at himself in the mirror, he knows this will work.

Night has fallen by the time he gets out. He finds a cab and gets home, stopping briefly for takeout. When he walks into the flat, he finds John pacing through the sitting room, his phone in hand. He freezes when he sees Sherlock.

Then explodes.

“Where the hell have you been? It’s been three hours, Sherlock! Do you have any idea how worried I was? You left your phone here you idiot! Mycroft has people all over town looking for you!”

Sherlock blinks. It never occurred to him John might be worried.

“I just—”

“And right after I told you… _that_ ,” John continues before Sherlock can explain. His cheeks are a little pinker, suddenly. “What was I supposed to think?”

More than worried, then. Scared that his revelation was not welcome. Time to reassure him.

“Call Mycroft,” Sherlock says, stepping into the kitchen to put down the food. When he turns back to the sitting room, John is doing little more than shake his head.

“Call Mycroft?” John repeats. “Is that all you have to say to me?”

A smile is trying to push its way to Sherlock’s lips. He holds it down and answers as deadpan as he can manage, “Well, I intend to keep you busy for the rest of the night, so I thought you might want to let my brother call back his hounds before that. That’ll probably also ensure he doesn’t show up here and interrupt us.”

He’s kicked off his shoes as he talked, and is now taking off his coat, then his jacket. John blinks at him repeatedly, mouth hanging open. When Sherlock starts undoing the top button of his shirt, it seems that a jolt passes through him. His call to Mycroft takes all of five seconds – “He’s back, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” – and then he turns the phone off but doesn’t come any closer. Sherlock goes to him, continuing to unbutton his shirt.

“There’s something I want to show you,” Sherlock says, and a smile quirks John’s lips.

“Yeah, it certainly looks like you do. You don’t think you’re going a bit fast here? Just because… we don’t have to do anything, you know.”

It’s not quite clear who John is trying to convince, Sherlock or himself. Regardless, Sherlock finishes to unbutton his shirt and takes it off, throwing it on the sofa. He’s just two steps in front of John, who is staring at his chest. The plastic wrap obscures the words a little, so Sherlock takes it off, wincing a bit when the tape pulls at fine hair.

“That’s where I went,” he says quietly. “I needed to get it done today. I can’t forget this happened. It’s data as important as this—” He points at the words on his arm. “—and I shouldn’t question it whenever I have to relearn it.”

John reaches out with a trembling hand, and, with the lightest of fingers, brushes against the second line.

“It’s not exactly true, you know,” he says with a half smile. He pauses just long enough for Sherlock’s heart to feel like it just stopped, then goes on and reads. “John loves me. I told John I love him. First part is true. But you didn’t actually say it.”

“Of course I…”

Sherlock’s voice trails off when he realizes that no, he didn’t. He implied it, certainly, trying to get John to say it first, intending to return the words right after him. But then… then the thought of forgetting this simple, beautiful truth chased every other consideration from his mind, and he all but ran away.

No wonder John was upset.

“Well, I do,” he says, and his words come out strangely rough. “And if you worry about forgetting too, you can just look at my chest.”

John lets out a quiet laugh. His eyes are bright when they glance down then back up to meet Sherlock’s again. 

“Not that I mind looking at you, but hearing it would be nice, too, you know.”

His hand still hasn’t left Sherlock’s skin, and it’s now resting, loose and warm, at Sherlock’s waist, just above his trousers. His thumb is drawing small circles there, and each touch raises goose bumps over Sherlock’s body.

“I,” Sherlock starts, and stops at once. He clears his throat. “Surely I don’t need to actually say it. They’re just words. I could show you instead.”

He steps closer to John, leans in to find his mouth, but John stops him, angling his head down and pressing their foreheads together instead.

“They’re just words,” John repeats with a small grin. “Right. Words so inconsequential that you ran off and had them inked permanently into your skin. Don’t tell me the great Sherlock Holmes is scared of saying three little words.”

“I’m not scared,” Sherlock says at once, maybe a little too fast. “I just…” His voice drops to a murmur. “I’ve never said it. Not to anyone.”

Which is technically not entirely true; he said it to Redbeard, after all. But he doubts it’d count in John’s eyes. The situation is admittedly rather different.

“And I’d never said it to a bloke,” John says, his grin softening. “Your turn. Fair is fair.”

He’s not wrong. And it’s not like this is anything new to Sherlock; he came to terms with it and accepted it some time ago, even imagining that he might say it to John, maybe, some day. Still, a lifetime of habit is getting in the way, reminding him in his brother’s voice that caring that much never leads to anything good, that romantic love and physical attraction are little more than chemical reactions with no logic whatsoever to them.

But this is John, right here, in front of Sherlock, still waiting. Maybe that’s the only logic needed in the end. He takes a deep breath and throws himself into the unknown.

“John Watson, I… I love—”

He never gets to finish. John cups his face with both hands and crashes their mouths together. It’s a harsh kiss, full of teeth and tongues and bruised lips and muffled whimpers that absolutely do not come from Sherlock, and if he wraps his arms around John, it’s to pull him closer, not because he’s suddenly lightheaded.

Sherlock has never been all that interested in kissing – not any more than he was interested in sex. A few experiments with members of both genders while in university proved to him that he wasn’t missing anything in either regard by remaining single. Whatever needs his transport has, taking care of them on his own was always more expedient than trusting them to anyone else.

It takes but one kiss from John to make Sherlock realize his experiments were flawed from the start. It wasn’t about gender, age, technique, or the physical appearance of his onetime companions. It was about who they were. Or rather, who they weren’t.

They weren’t John Watson. It’s as simple as that.

But the man kissing him now _is_ John Watson. And Sherlock regrets having left earlier without kissing him first. If he had, there surely would be a third line on his chest right now. _Kiss John often_. 

He never knew a kiss could be like this, overwhelming, and breathtaking, and so intimate that he feels he’s baring every last inch of who he is for John to see. With anyone else, it would be unbearable. But it’s not anyone else. This is John. And that fact keeps echoing through Sherlock’s mind, filling him with warmth and need. Without thinking, he shifts his hips forward, grinds his erection against John’s thigh, thrilled when he feels his interest returned with a matching hard length pressing against him.

John pulls back and breaks the kiss. He’s panting – they both are – and for a few seconds they just stare at each other.

“Maybe…” John licks his lips. “Maybe we should slow down a bit.”

“Why?”

The question seems to stomp John for a few seconds. 

“Because… because this is going awfully fast?”

“All together we’ve lived under the same roof for two and a half years,” Sherlock points out. Entirely of their own accord, his fingers are tugging John’s shirt out of his jeans. “Wasn’t that slow enough?”

John laughs quietly. “Entirely different circumstances.”

“Really? Everybody thought we were a couple.”

“Yes but we weren’t, and now we are, and forgive me but I’m still trying to wrap my mind around the fact that you’re not a woman.”

He’s only half joking, Sherlock realizes. John admitted to his romantic attachment, and there’s no doubt he’s physically attracted to Sherlock, but it’s still new for him, maybe even a little frightening – just as it is for Sherlock, if for different reasons.

“I’m going to forget, John.” The words come out in a rush. Sherlock didn’t mean to say this, but John needs to understand it’s more than impatience or animal lust pushing him. “This—” He touches the words on his own chest. “—will help me remember, but it won’t be the same as it was today. I’ll relearn it every time, but you’ll already know. It won’t be new for you anymore. Today is the one time when we get to be on the same footing.”

“Which also means,” John says with a small smile, “that you get to have an infinite number of first times, and I only get one of those. If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not rush through it. Especially when you’ve been up for more than three days and are long overdue for a good night of sleep.”

Sherlock has to roll his eyes at that. “We agreed I can have up to five days.”

“No.” John’s fingers rest on Sherlock’s shoulders and he makes him turn, then nudges him forward, keeping his hand at the small of his back. “We agreed you can have five days _if_ you’re on a case and _if_ you don’t have hallucinations or paranoia symptoms. You solved the case. Off to bed you go.”

Sherlock lets himself be guided toward his bedroom. As long as John is coming along, he doesn’t mind going there.

“You can’t force me to sleep,” he says, glancing back. “But you could help tire me out. It doesn’t have to be penetrative sex. We could still achieve mutually satisfying orgasms another way.”

John’s hand falls away, and when Sherlock steps into his bedroom, John doesn’t follow. He looks back, questioning. Shaking his head, John smiles wryly.

“You really know how to sweet talk someone,” he says, tongue in cheek. “How could I ever resist?”

Sherlock takes hold of John’s wrist, and pulling him forward is only a pretext. What he’s really doing is checking what John’s blown pupils, what the flush in his cheeks are already making clear, what his pulse only confirms. As much as he’s protesting, he does want this quite as much as Sherlock does.

When Sherlock leans in close, John’s breath comes out in a little gasp. Sherlock whispers just against John’s ear, “Come to bed with me.” He doesn’t wait for an answer and removes his trousers and pants before slipping between the sheets. For a few seconds, John only stares at him, and Sherlock can practically hear the cogs turning in his mind about whether they’re going too fast or not, whether Sherlock’s supposed need for sleep should be a factor, and how much John, considering his exclusively heterosexual experience, is comfortable with right now.

Whatever answer he comes up with, he’s soon tugging his shirt over his head. His shoes, trousers and socks come off too, but he’s still wearing his pants over a very noticeable bulge when he climbs into bed.

“You’re impossible,” he mutters as he slides in close to Sherlock so that they lie on their sides next to each other, and brings their mouths together.

Whatever Sherlock was going to respond entirely slips his mind as John’s tongue finds his again. If he had any doubt that the first kiss was a statistical error, the outlier to unsatisfying experiences, this second one confirms that it was anything but.

John lays a hand on Sherlock’s cheek, then slides it to the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair and drawing him a little closer, a little harder against John’s mouth. Sherlock groans. Just two points of contact, mouth and hand, and already sparks of electricity are shooting through him, sensations coursing down his spine and to the tip of his prick. 

Shifting his hips closer to John’s, Sherlock presses a hand to his shoulder, against the scar that feels like a starburst against his fingertips. He doesn’t stay there but slides down John’s arm, over his hip to the edge of his pants and then against the waistband and to the front, cupping John’s cock. 

With a gasp, John breaks the kiss. For a second, Sherlock is sure he’s gone too fast and John will ask once more to slow down, but then John’s mouth is on his again, possessive, and his hips are pressing forward, pushing his prick harder against Sherlock’s hand.

As he rubs the heel of his hand along the hard length still hiding beneath fabric, Sherlock can feel a growing wet patch against the tip. Tasting John suddenly becomes paramount. His hand is unsteady when he guides John’s cock out of his pants. He gives it a few slow, teasing strokes that cause John to groan into his mouth, then swipes his thumb to the tip, gathering precome. This time, it’s a sound of protest that rises from John’s throat when Sherlock lets go of him then breaks the kiss, but he soon watches Sherlock suck on his own thumb and the gleaming bead of fluid there.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his voice shaky.

Sherlock grins at him. “I thought you wanted to go slow?”

John is still chuckling when he covers Sherlock’s mouth with his own. As Sherlock returns his hand to John’s prick, John’s hand follows, and tentatively wraps around Sherlock’s. The first few strokes are hesitant, but quickly he finds a rhythm, matching Sherlock’s slide for slide. Every so often, their cocks find each other, and every time the sensations ratchet up just a little more. They both start to lose their pace, but the answer to that is easy. Pressing their cocks together and joining their hands over them feels as natural as though they’ve done this dozens of times before. They’re both panting too hard to keep kissing and their mouths fall apart even as they press their pricks more tightly together still. 

It ends with a word, John’s name passing Sherlock’s lips in a shaky whisper. John’s eyes clench tightly shut, and his hips thrust forward as he comes, his cock pulsing alongside Sherlock’s and triggering his orgasm.

With pleasure crashing through him like relentless waves over the beach, Sherlock closes his eyes – and opens them again at once. He can’t fall asleep now. He mustn’t.

In a minute, he’ll get out of John’s embrace, and out of bed. He’ll get a flannel in the bathroom and clean himself and John. He’ll get the takeout in the kitchen, bring it to John and they’ll eat in bed. Maybe they won’t finish the food before starting over. At some point, John will fall asleep, and Sherlock will stay awake. Maybe he’ll watch him, or maybe he’ll get the diary and write in what happened. But one thing absolutely needs to happen. John said earlier, quite rightly, that this is the only ‘first time’ he’s going to get. Sherlock will make sure that his first morning after doesn’t happen with someone who has no idea how they ended up in bed; there’ll be enough of that in the future.

But all that will only start in a minute, when Sherlock manages to catch his breath.

Or maybe after he kisses John some more.


	12. September 7th - John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never before had a 'screw you' made me want to write that much :P

As he stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in a terrycloth robe and still rubbing a towel over his wet hair, John peeked into the darkened bedroom. He could see little more of Sherlock than a few dark curls on the pillow, sticking out from under the blankets. Part of him wanted to return to bed, mold his body against Sherlock’s back and wake him the same way Sherlock had done to him a few hours earlier. He had all the pains in the world reminding himself that it might not be such a good idea. 

Sherlock had said his feelings predated his illness and John believed him, but it would doubtlessly still be a shock for him to wake and find John in his bed, let alone if John was trying to instigate anything intimate.

There was also the stark fact that before finally falling asleep a little before nine in the evening Sherlock had been awake for four days, three of them spent on a case, and the last one even more tiring.

But what a pleasant way to get tired…

Smiling to himself, John closed the door very quietly and walked over to the kitchen, resolved to let Sherlock sleep as long as possible. He was about to fill the kettle when he realized it was already full, already on, and moments away from boiling. 

His first thought was toward Mrs. Hudson, but he knew at once that it couldn’t be her. The kitchen table was a mess of empty takeaway cartons. Had Mrs. Hudson seen this, she might have heavily muttered about being a landlady and not a housekeeper, but she’d have cleaned it up anyway.

If not her…

Crossing the kitchen, John slid the door more widely open. He found the intruder at once, standing by the window with his back to John.

It wasn’t unexpected – actually, Sherlock had warned him this was likely to happen – but John had hoped he’d get a few days’ respite, enough for him and Sherlock to figure out their new routine first.

“Mycroft,” he said dryly in guise of greeting. “I take it you’d like some tea?”

“If it’s not too much trouble, _Doctor_ Watson.”

He usually called John by his first name. The emphasis on his title made it clear which way things were about to go.

“Well, you started the kettle. I’m sure you’ll find the milk.”

With that, John resolutely went up to his room. He wasn’t about to have that conversation wearing nothing more than a robe while Mycroft was as always clad in a perfect suit.

He returned less than five minutes later, dressed and ready for battle. Mycroft was in Sherlock’s chair, a tea cup in one hand and holding Sherlock’s diary open on his knee with the other. John gritted his teeth, annoyed twice over at this intrusion into Sherlock’s private space. Striding over, he thrust a hand forward, palm open, demanding with a raised eyebrow the return of the diary.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow in return, and for a few seconds they were at a standstill. John’s lips started to curl into a hard smile. He’d watched Mycroft and Sherlock play this kind of game before; he had no doubt who would win now.

“Have you read it?” Mycroft asked. “Some parts are… enlightening.”

“I haven’t and I won’t. And neither should you.”

“Very little about you,” Mycroft continued. “Or at least, very little in here. The sheet music is more explicit.”

For a second, John glanced at the music stand. For the past two weeks, Sherlock had been working on and off on a new composition. Its title was written in the Cyrillic alphabet. John had no idea what Mycroft meant, but he had no intention to ask. That, too, was Sherlock’s. Like the armchair. And like the diary.

“Don’t make me take it,” John said very low.

With a put-upon sigh, Mycroft closed the notebook and handed it over. John ran his fingers over the cover as he returned it to the sofa, where Sherlock was bound to find it later.

Sitting across from Mycroft, John picked up the cup of tea that had been set on the table on his left. He took a sip before asking, “And what brings you here today?”

Mycroft considered him for a moment. “Your inability to answer your phone,” he finally replied. “About thirty hours ago you called to inform me you'd misplaced my brother. Three hours after that, you announced that he was back, with no explanation. You also said you'd call me yesterday, which you failed to do. How long was I supposed to wait?”

John grimaced. He'd completely forgotten he'd said he'd call Mycroft. He generally kept him informed of what went on in Sherlock's life but with as few details as he could get away with, and even if he'd remembered to call he wouldn't have explained these particular developments.

“My apologies,” he said. “It slipped my mind. But you can be assured he’s perfectly fine. He just needed a moment to himself and I might have overreacted.”

“I find that hard to believe, Doctor. You've acclimated to your living conditions rather well. You'd only overreact, as you say, if the situation was new and unexpected.”

John didn’t like at all the hint of reproach creeping in Mycroft’s words.

“Why are you calling me ‘Doctor’?” he asked mildly.

Mycroft took one last sip of tea before setting the cup aside. “Maybe to remind you what role you play in my brother’s life.”

John shook his head. “I’m his friend. Not his doctor.”

“You've been both for three months,” Mycroft countered. “If not much longer than that. But I daresay you fancy yourself something more now, don't you?”

It wasn’t mere reproach anymore. It was downright accusation. John set the cup down and crossed both arms over his chest.

“I really don't see how that's any of your business.”

“Don't you?” Mycroft’s cold smile could have frozen an ocean. “You've known since our first encounter how much I worry about Sherlock.”

“I’ve known since that day how annoying he finds your interference in his life, too,” John shot back.

A wry chuckle came to Mycroft’s lips. “But of course. This is all about what Sherlock wants, isn't it?”

“It’s about what he and I want. Your interference isn't part of it.”

“It isn't now,” Mycroft agreed. “But what happens when it is needed? When you give up and decide—”

John’s blood was starting to boil. He raised his voice to interrupt Mycroft. “I don't know why you think I'm going to wash my hands of him one day. I wasn't going to do it before. I'm certainly not going to do it now.”

“Now that you're intimate, you mean.” It sounded like a curse word on his lips. “And how is that going to work? Are you going to woo my brother and take his virginity every time he—”

John tried to contain his laugh, he really did. But sometimes it was just too nice to be reminded that Mycroft wasn't all knowing. And it was nice to remind him of that fact, too.

“Not that it’s any of your business either, but your brother has more experience in this particular domain than I do, so you can stop worrying about me taking advantage of him.”

Mycroft’s surprise was a study in subtlety: two quick blinks, the barest widening of his eyes, a light pinch of his lips. He recovered quickly, but John still had time to wonder just how closely Mycroft had kept his eye on Sherlock over the years to be so sure he’d never been involved with anyone before. However close it had been, however, his surveillance must have had flaws.

“Not taking advantage, then,” he said. “But what about taking your due? You’ve been helping Sherlock quite selflessly for a long time.”

“And if you finish that sentence by implying I’m taking repayment for that help, you and I are going to have a serious problem, Mycroft.”

John wasn’t amused anymore. He understood that Mycroft worried about Sherlock and wanted the best for him, but there were limits to what he would tolerate. They observed each other for a long time, the silence only broken by faint noises coming from the bedroom, then the bathroom. John would have liked to show Mycroft the door before Sherlock came out, but he realized that wasn’t going to happen. Mycroft wanted to see his brother, make sure he was all right. John wished he could have had this first morning without witnesses, but he wasn’t worried. Or at least, not much.

After a few more seconds, Sherlock’s voice rose even as a door opened.

“John? John, are you…”

John turned to watch him enter the sitting room. He wore nothing more than pajama pants, and John felt a flash of warmth at the sight of the words inked over his chest, the handwriting so familiar even backwards. With his tousled hair and the brightly red love bites John had left on his neck and shoulder, he looked just on this side of debauched.

The tentative but hopeful smile he cast toward John turned into something far less pleasant when he realized they weren’t alone.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, frowning at Mycroft.

“Can’t I come visit, brother dear?”

It was all John could do not to throw Mycroft out – very literally if that was what it took. He and Sherlock had come up with a smooth routine for whenever he woke up, and it needed to be adjusted now, but Mycroft’s presence was complicating everything.

Getting to his feet, John went to the sofa to get the diary, though he changed his mind and picked up the shirt Sherlock had abandoned there two nights earlier. He handed it to Sherlock with a thin smile, and after a beat Sherlock took it and slipped it on, doing up enough buttons to hide the tattoos, if a bit late. John had no doubt that Mycroft had deciphered them.

“This explains what happened,” he said, now giving Sherlock the notebook. “Why don’t you read it? I’ll get you some tea.”

Sherlock looked about to say something, but a quick glance at Mycroft seemed to change his mind. He nodded once and accepted the notebook, his fingers brushing against John’s. He sat on the sofa while John retreated from the room, and for the next few minutes the flat was silent again. When John returned with a mug, Sherlock accepted it without a word, barely lifting his eyes off the diary. John sat back in his armchair with his own mug of tea. Across from him, Mycroft was observing Sherlock thoughtfully, though in silence.

When Sherlock finally closed the diary, he was frowning lightly, absent-mindedly touching his chest. He finally lifted his eyes toward John.

“What’s the date?” he asked.

“September seventh.”

He nodded, but his frown remained in place. “The tattoo is recent,” he said, and it wasn’t a question. 

John answered anyway. “Day before last. There’s lotion for it in the bathroom. You didn’t put any on yesterday so you should do it today.”

After another nod, Sherlock started to say something but he glanced at Mycroft again and cut himself short.

“Mycroft,” John said without taking his eyes off Sherlock, “if you have anything else to say, say it now. Otherwise, kindly get the hell out of our flat.”

If Mycroft took exception to John’s language, he didn’t show it. Instead, he inclined his head once. “I’d like a moment with my brother if you wouldn’t mind, John.”

As a matter of fact, John did mind, but Sherlock offered a quiet, “Just a few minutes, please,” and how could John say no?

He retreated to the upstairs bedroom, sitting at the foot of his bed and staring out the open door. He could hear their voices coming up the staircase, but they weren’t loud enough for him to make out words. He tried to distract himself, tried to wonder if his dresser would fit in Sherlock’s bedroom or if it was better to keep his things upstairs. He supposed it might be a bit too early to decide. In a few days, after they saw how Sherlock reacted whenever he woke up, it’d be easier to figure out.

After close to ten minutes, Mycroft’s voice came up, louder now.

“Good day, John.”

He was gone before John could reply. Going back down to the sitting room, John felt more than a little jittery. What had they talked about? What if Mycroft had passed on his doubts to Sherlock?

Just as he entered the room, the first notes rose from the violin. John stopped briefly, watching Sherlock as he stood by the window, his attention on the music stand and the sheets there. The melody was slower as Sherlock deciphered his own notes than John usually heard it; it was always slow the first time Sherlock played it from the start – the first time he relearned it, before adding more to it.

As he stepped over to his chair, John was quiet, trying not to disrupt Sherlock’s playing, but Sherlock stopped anyway, keeping the violin up to his neck but lowering the bow as he turned to John.

“There’s nothing about this—” He touched his chest. “—in the diary.”

“Nothing about us, you mean,” John said, and was unable to hide a grin. “I think you were a little too busy to think about writing anything in.”

The blush that crept up Sherlock’s face was as lovely as it was unexpected. Sherlock was many things, but John had never known him to be bashful.

“And to tell the truth,” John continued after a few seconds, “I’d rather you don’t write about it in there. I don’t know what it already says about me, but I think I’d like it better if you didn’t learn about us from words on a page.”

Sherlock raised his bow to the strings, but lowered it again without drawing a note from the violin.

“So you’re going to tell me about… about this every time?”

“I’ll tell you about us, yes. Anything you’d like to know?”

Rather than words, Sherlock offered him music, a few short phrases before he said, “You slept in my bed last night.”

John propped his elbow on the armrest of his chair and leaned his cheek against his closed fist.

“I did. Although if you want to be accurate, we pretty much spent the last thirty hours in your bed. And a large part of it had little to do with sleep.”

And there was that blush again, coloring Sherlock’s cheeks. He cleared his throat before asking, looking at John from under his eyelashes, “And it was… satisfying?”

A quiet chuckle escaped John. 

“From my end, certainly. I don’t think you had complaints either.”

Sherlock turned back to the music stand, but not before John could see his smile. Again, he played a few phrases from his composition before interrupting himself.

“How long has this been true?” he asked, touching his chest again. “The first part, I mean.”

John shook his head. “Honestly? I don’t know. A while. I didn’t realize that’s what it was until a few weeks ago.” After a couple seconds, he added, more quietly, now, “Or maybe I didn’t want to see it.”

A raised eyebrow asked him to explain.

“I never thought this was anything you’d care to have from me so there was no point in making anything out of it. How about you? You said…”

John’s voice trailed off when Sherlock approached and, without warning, leaned down and pressed his mouth to John’s for a quick peck of a kiss than was over before John even knew it had happened. Sherlock straightened up again and observed John as though waiting for his reaction.

“I’ve wanted to do this for years,” he said very quietly. “I never thought it was something you’d care to have from me either.”

Their gazes remained locked for a few seconds before Sherlock returned to the music stand.

“Clearly we’re both idiots,” John said, a little choked up. It was silly, really, that a small kiss could touch him like this after the past day. And yet.

Sherlock smiled. He was about to start playing again when words fell from John’s lips that he hadn’t meant to voice.

“Mycroft said something to me earlier.”

Sherlock snorted. “Mycroft is a prat who should keep his nose out of our lives. What did he say?”

“He said your music says something about me.”

“Well on that at least he was right,” Sherlock said with a quick look at him.

“How would he know?”

Sherlock’s light shrug felt forced. “Unlike you, my brother speaks Russian.”

“The title?”

“Your name.”

John couldn’t help but think of the past few weeks, of every time Sherlock had picked up his violin and worked on that new piece of music. Had he been thinking of John every time? Adding up clues he’d forget again before finally deciding to raise the topic with John? How much courage had he needed to take that leap with such limited information?

“Play it for me?” John requested, his voice too raw to raise much above a whisper.

Sherlock played it, starting from the first note, playing everything John had heard before in snatches, and composing the end as he went. It was beautiful, more so than John could express in words, and the only answer he could offer when Sherlock finished was a kiss.


	13. August 15th & 16th - Sherlock

Sherlock wakes up with a pounding headache.

He doesn’t remember going to sleep, but he does remember when the headache started, and… Was John there? The headache makes everything a little foggy, and he isn’t sure whether he just dreamed of John’s presence or if John was really there. Either way, and judging by the fact that the alarm clock claims it’s eleven at night, Sherlock has undoubtedly missed their lunch.

All this time convincing himself it can’t go on this way and he has to tell John even if it means giving up on their friendship, and now he’s missed his chance. He groans, annoyed with himself, already half-sure that he won’t get through with it now. As much as he wants to break the status quo, he knows his own mind, knows he’s scared of losing John, knows the odds of John responding in a positive way are slim to none. 

Massaging his temple with the fingers of one hand, he grabs the dressing gown hanging behind the door and slips it on then steps out of his bedroom. He hasn’t even reached the kitchen yet that he hears John’s voice, a quiet mutter that might be meant for John himself.

“Oh hell no. It hasn’t even been five hours.”

“John?” he says, confused and still rubbing ineffectually at his temple as though he can push away the pain pounding in his head. “What are you doing here?”

John joins Sherlock in the kitchen from the sitting room. He starts to say something but frowns at Sherlock and seems to change his mind about what to say.

“What’s wrong? Headache?”

“Yes, I… Why are you here? Were you here earlier? I can’t quite remember what happened.”

John’s face is utterly blank, showing nothing as he reaches up and lays his palm against Sherlock’s forehead. Sherlock stills at the unexpected touch.

“No fever,” John says, turning to the sink to fill a glass of water. “But if you still have a headache, you should try to sleep a bit longer. Come on, doctor’s orders, back to bed.”

Holding the glass in one hand, John rests the other on Sherlock’s shoulder and pushes gently until Sherlock turns around. He should protest, say he got enough sleep, gather enough courage to tell John… but it’s hard to do any of it when John’s hand is still on his shoulder, coaxing him forward. 

In the bedroom, John picks up a small bottle from the night table and hands Sherlock two pills along the glass of water.

“For your headache,” he says, and watches Sherlock take the paracetamol. It must be a different brand than the one Sherlock is used to; the pills are round rather than oval.

John takes the empty glass from Sherlock. “All right, back to bed.”

“It’s just a headache,” Sherlock protests. “I just woke up, I’m not tired. Besides, I haven’t seen you in three weeks and…” Sherlock’s heart jumps as he makes up his mind and forges ahead. “There’s… there’s something I meant to tell you.”

John shakes his head. “You can say it when you wake up. I’ll be there, I promise. But you really need to get some more sleep, Sherlock. Please.”

“You’ll be there?” Sherlock repeats, feeling very slow – and suddenly very, very tired. When John tugs the dressing gown off him, Sherlock doesn’t have it in him to stop him or help. His legs feel heavy, as do his eyelids. He sits on the edge of the bed, blinking up at John who gives him a thin smile.

“I’ll be there,” John says again, more softly now. “If someone tries to tell you anything different, he’s lying and you can tell him from me to just go back to hell.”

The same gentle hand that helped Sherlock out of his dressing gown now pushes him to lie down on his back, then tugs the sheet and duvet over him. Sherlock wants to say… something. Ask who ‘someone’ is, because John sounds like he means a very particular person. Ask why he’s here, why he’ll be there, what his wife will say about it. Ask if he knows how much Sherlock cares about him, how much Sherlock—

But his mind is drowsy and slow, his eyes are closing, and he can barely hear John say, “More than five hours, this time. You’ve got nine days to make up for. Please.”

He has no idea what this means.

The confession he meant to make never passes his lips.

*

Of his full to bursting bladder or desperately empty stomach, Sherlock couldn’t say which is the one that wakes him. His mind still a little groggy from sleep, he goes to take care of the first – and doing so, notices the words tattooed on his arm.

He goes as far as washing his hands, then he has to sit down from feeling a little lightheaded, both from hunger and from the information he just read on his own arm. Perched on the edge of the bathtub, he closes his eyes and accesses his mind palace, walking up to the front door, checking every cue one by one and the memories associated with each of them. He goes through five rooms before his heartbeat starts to calm down a little.

“All right,” he murmurs to himself. “Just anterograde. Nothing more.”

Why it’s such a comfort, he couldn’t quite say. Maybe for the simple fact that he hasn’t lost _everything_.

He returns to his memories, this time trying to pinpoint the last thing he remembers.

John.

The last thing he remembers is John coming to the flat when Sherlock missed their lunch. He looks at the tattoo on his arm again. It’s completely healed, with no hint of redness or irritation, so it’s been there for a while. How long has it been since Sherlock had the words inked into his skin?

How long since he was diagnosed?

Stepping back into his bedroom, he gets dressed, putting on an old t-shirt, pajama pants and a dressing gown. For the first time he notices the quiet voices coming from the flat. He can’t distinguish the words, but the voices are familiar enough: Mrs. Hudson, and John.

Drawing the belt tight over his grumbling belly, Sherlock steps out to join them. He finds them both in the kitchen, with Mrs. Hudson stirring something in a pot on the gas range while John stands by the door, watching her. He notices Sherlock first and gives him a thin smile.

“Good afternoon. How are you feeling? Does your head still hurt?”

“My head? No, I’m fine. I…”

Whatever else he was going to say is lost when Mrs. Hudson gives him a brief hug.

“Oh, Sherlock,” she says, clucking her tongue. “You shouldn’t scare John like that.”

“Mrs. Hudson,” John says at once, his tone reproachful.

She clasps her hands in front of her. “Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot. It’s just… I don’t know how you do it, John, really.”

“Thank you for the soup,” John says firmly. “I’ll bring the pot down later.”

It’s a dismissal if Sherlock ever heard one. Mrs. Hudson gives her goodbyes and leaves. Sherlock watches her go, trying to gather the few pieces he’s been given so far.

He did something that scared John enough that he talked about it to Mrs. Hudson, something that might have resulted in either a head wound or headache; the latter, more than likely, as there is no bandage on his head. He looks at John, but before he can decide which of a dozen questions to ask first, John shakes his head.

“You’ve got questions,” he says with a wry smile. “You’ll get your answers. But you need to eat something before that. Sit.”

Soon, Sherlock is seated at the table with a bowl of spicy soup in front of him and a notebook open to the first page just beyond that. He eats absently while reading his own handwriting, satisfying both his hunger and his thirst for answers. Every now and then, he looks up to where John is standing again by the kitchen door and asks a question.

“What’s the date?”

“August sixteenth.”

More than three months already since his diagnosis…

“And Mycroft agreed to put me in your care?”

John snorts at that. “Are you saying you’d have gone to live with him? Seriously?”

Sherlock grimaces. No, he wouldn’t have. The only person under whose care he can see himself is John, and even that chafes in unexpected ways. He understands why he needs someone there, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it.

“What about…”

He stops himself before pronouncing Mary’s name. She would never have consented to living here. The diary says John shares the flat with Sherlock again, and the ring that used to be on his left hand is gone… The inference is easy to make.

“We’re divorced,” John answers the unvoiced question, his tone absolutely void of emotions.

Sherlock nods at his soup and doesn’t answer. He’s not going to say he’s sorry. John hardly ever knows when Sherlock is lying, but that just might be too big of a lie to go unnoticed.

He’s reached the bottom of his bowl of soup as well as the end of the notebook, but if his hunger is sated, he still has a few questions. Sitting back in his chair, he observes John for a moment, while John observes him in return. His arms are crossed over his chest, now, his posture rigid, and the small smile he was sporting earlier is gone.

“There’s something you want to say to me,” Sherlock says, and it’s not a question.

John nods. “Good deduction. Come in the sitting room. And take your diary, you’re going to need it.”

He goes first, and his steps might be those of a man marching toward the battlefront. Sherlock follows, the notebook in hand, and sits across from him in his armchair.

“How long was I awake?” he asks.

A thin, dangerous smile curls the corners of John’s mouth.

“Another excellent deduction. How do you know?”

Sherlock shrugs. “My first instinct upon reading that I forget whenever I fall asleep was to wonder how long I can go without sleeping. Mrs. Hudson said I scared you, and as a doctor I expect you would react poorly to me experimenting on sleep deprivation on myself. Then there’s your question about a possible headache, which can be a symptom of lack of sleep. Add to that the fact that I seem to have slept for quite a long time, and it can all only mean one thing. So I ask again. How long was I awake?”

“You,” John says with a slight shake of his head, “are amazing. You are also the most infuriating man I ever had the pleasure of knowing. You were awake for nine days—”

When Sherlock makes a quiet, appreciative noise, John’s voice rises with anger.

“—and wipe that smile off your face because that is _not_ an achievement. You said you wanted to know how long you can function without sleep, but you were not functioning, Sherlock. You were having hallucinations, from the third day onward, I think. And in the end you went into a full blown psychosis. So you are not doing this again. Put that in your diary. If you ever try to pull that kind of idiotic move again, I swear…”

He pauses then, as though hesitating about the threat he’s about to deliver, and Sherlock’s throat tightens. If John says he’ll leave if Sherlock does this again, if he makes it clear that leaving Sherlock to fend for himself is something he could consider…

“I’ll sedate you by force,” John finishes, his voice growing harder with each word. “I agreed to move in to help you. If you won’t listen to reason, I’ll do whatever I need to make sure you don’t hurt yourself. Are we clear?”

Sherlock scowls at him. “You’re not my nanny. If you think you can just send me to bed whenever you feel like it—”

John’s raucous laugh silences him.

“Whenever I feel like it?” he repeats. “Do you think this is fun for me? Do you think I enjoy watching you argue with someone who isn’t there? Or watching you yell at Molly? Or hurt her?”

Sherlock’s mouth snaps shut. Was it that bad, really? Is this what John meant by psychosis? He can’t imagine any circumstances under which he’d willingly hurt Molly. He must have been out of his mind.

“How long will you allow me, then?” he asks, and the question leaves a bitter taste on his tongue.

“Three days,” John says immediately. “And don’t bother trying to argue. I’m still mad at you for being so damn bone-headed. If you want to get into a shouting match, you’re not going to win.”

Sherlock has seen that harsh gleam in John’s eyes before; it’s almost daring him to object. It’s also warning him that this is a fight he has no way of winning. In a few days, or maybe a few weeks, when John has calmed down, Sherlock will have a better chance to plead his case. Until then, he might as well appear to agree.

“Very well,” he says, opening the diary and pulling the pen free from the spine. “Three days. I’ll write it in.”

John gives him a suspicious look. It’s clear he didn’t expect Sherlock to yield so quickly, which means it must have been the right decision to let it go for now. He writes a few words in about the nine days experiment. He’s tempted to put in a note to remind himself to argue about the three day limit in a week or so, but he doesn’t know who reads this diary other than himself, and it would defeat the purpose to inform John a new fight is coming. Besides, such a reminder is probably not needed. That rule is going to get annoying, and fast.

After writing in, he thumbs through the rest of the notebook for a moment, re-reading a few parts. The one about John is both intriguing and frustratingly sparse. He easily understands why there isn’t more there: some of his thoughts or observations about John are not meant for anyone, least of all John himself. But how can Sherlock add up clues when he doesn’t have all the facts? He’d like to think he was a factor in John separating from Mary – would like to believe John chose him over her – but for all he knows the timing of divorce and illness was coincidental. It’s against his nature to believe in coincidences, but if he guessed something different and was wrong…

He pulls out of his thoughts to find John watching him.

“What?” he says, feeling defensive despite himself, as though John had any way to guess what Sherlock is thinking about.

“Nothing,” John says, shaking his head once. “I need to go to the store but…”

“But you don’t want to leave me alone,” Sherlock says, rolling his eyes. “What if I say I will not leave the flat?”

John considers him for a few seconds. “Is that a promise?”

“If you need it to be. Yes, it’s a promise.”

It’s not a hard promise to give, either. Solitude sounds good, right now. John’s presence makes it difficult to think.

And still, when he leaves with a promise of his own that he won’t be long, Sherlock immediately feels like something is off. Missing. It’s very odd. Being under John’s care is verging on uncomfortable, but not having him there is worse.

Annoyed with himself, Sherlock leaves his diary on the armchair and goes to pick up his violin. From the lack of rosin on the bow, it seems it’s been a while since he played. He applies rosin, fiddles with the tuning pegs, plays a few phrases from random music pieces, but soon the bow stills on the strings as a thought emerges in his mind.

He needs to keep a record about John, about the way he acts now, about what it might mean – for example, about his anger today, and the fact that he barely let it out; about his threat to sedate Sherlock, and the lack of threat to leave. And if he can’t put all that in words…

It takes him only seconds to find blank sheets and a pencil. At the top of the first page, he writes two words: _Джон Ватсон_. Then he sets the bow to the violin again and endeavors to give himself a message through music notes.


	14. October 4th - John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starting now, i'll be updating once a week on Thursdays.

Under John’s fingers, Sherlock’s back was warm, still slick from sweat. It was also uneven, a myriad of long, thin scars covering it from his shoulders to the dip above his bum. The first time John had touched those scars, when he’d asked what they were and Sherlock had answered with the same indifference as though he’d been talking of the color of the sky, John’s throat had tightened until he couldn’t speak anymore, until all he could do was hold on to Sherlock and try to forget those long years spent believing he was dead. 

He still didn’t like those scars, still wished Sherlock didn’t have to wear them, but they’d become something more than a reminder of those years. They were a tangible proof of Sherlock’s resilience, of his strength – of what he could overcome in order to come home.

In order, he’d said, to come back to John.

“You need a shower.”

John’s fingers stilled at that unexpected remark.

“Your definition of pillow talk leaves something to be desired,” he muttered, caught somewhere between amused and annoyed. 

“How is it pillow talk?” Sherlock countered. “We’re not in bed.”

They weren’t, indeed. They lay on the sofa instead, chest to chest, with Sherlock on top of John. His cheek was pressed to the tattoo on John’s chest, whose letters he had traced earlier with his fingers then his lips. His feet stuck out of the blanket that was their rather flimsy attempt at preserving modesty should Mrs. Hudson decide to pop in. Although, she’d learned from her mistakes and was rather good at knocking first, these days.

“I’m pretty sure in this scenario I’m the pillow,” John said, scratching the nape of Sherlock’s neck with a nail. “And if I need a shower, so do you, Mr. Tact.”

Sherlock raised his head and cocked an eyebrow at John. “That was rather the point.”

John blinked, then grinned, happily surprised.

“Oh. Okay, then. Lead the way.”

He wasn’t too sure why he was still surprised, actually. Two things had been very consistent since their relationship had taken this new turn: whenever he woke up and received the facts, Sherlock was at first a little incredulous and a little shy, like he couldn’t quite believe his good luck and was wary of doing something wrong that would mess it all up. John knew the feeling quite well. Then, when he realized he only had three days ahead of him, he became rather determined on making the most of his time.

Unless he had a case, of course, but John wouldn’t have expected anything different.

He’d asked Sherlock, that first day when they’d barely left the bed, how experienced he was. His shrug and easy dismissal of past ‘experiments’ hadn’t been all that encouraging for the prospects of their intimate life. John had realized since then the flaw in his thinking. He wasn’t an experiment, so whatever Sherlock had done – or not done – with others was irrelevant.

As far as he could figure out from tidbits gathered over the course of a month, the important thing, where Sherlock was concerned, was that he’d never been interested in anyone as much as he was in John, and that he’d been all but convinced John would never return his interest. To find out that last part wasn’t true meant the world to him. And to see that realization strike him, time after time, had made it quite clear to John that those words Sherlock had so much trouble saying out right without prompting were nonetheless true and heartfelt.

“It’s not leading the way if you don’t follow,” Sherlock called out, startling John out of his mental meanderings. He’d been so caught up in his thoughts, he’d barely noticed Sherlock getting up and walking through the room, gloriously nude and not caring in the least. An unforgivable lapse. John hurried after him and joined him in the bathroom.

Sharing a shower wasn’t new to John, but it was new to Sherlock, so John took on a passive role, letting Sherlock set the pace. Today, it meant letting Sherlock soap him up with his bare hands and touch virtually every inch of him. John tried to return the caresses, but Sherlock batted his hands away.

“You can have your turn later,” he said in a low-pitched voice that stroked along John’s spine like gentle fingers. “Mine now.”

Whether ‘mine’ referred to his turn or to John himself, John wasn’t quite sure, nor did he care, not when Sherlock’s hands were being replaced by his mouth, not when Sherlock was sliding down to his knees, not when his tongue, dancing on John’s cock, was so damn talented.

In just moments, John’s knees started to buckle while gasps and moans escaped him every few seconds. He steadied himself with a hand on the wall and the other at the back of Sherlock’s head. Sherlock looked up from his task, blinking repeatedly to chase away the water clinging to his eyelashes. The corners of his eyes crinkled with a look John knew quite well, a look that usually accompanied a wicked, dirty smile he’d never imagined could grace Sherlock’s lips.

John didn’t last long after that.

Back on his feet, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, keeping him upright as he slowly, gently kissed him down from his pleasure high.

Twenty minutes later, they were mostly dry and still kissing, although now in bed.

“My turn,” John breathed against his lips. “And after that, sleep.”

Sherlock pouted at him. “Not tired,” he said, predictably.

John hid his smile in the crook of Sherlock’s neck, biting lightly. “You’re never tired. That doesn’t mean you don’t need sleep.”

That argument – and John’s turn – came to a screeching halt when a loud knock on the door was followed by Mrs. Hudson’s loud voice.

“Woohoo, boys. You’ve got a visitor.”

It was Lestrade. He had a case – two murders, five days apart, suspected to be by the same killer. When Sherlock went to put on more than a dressing gown, he was beaming. Greg grimaced.

“It’s not because they’re murders,” John tried to placate him. “He’s happy because now he’s got an excuse not to go to sleep. You’ve got him two days, maximum. And less if—”

“He starts hallucinating,” Greg finished for him. “Yes, I know. Shouldn’t you be getting dressed too?”

John got dressed. He tagged along to the crime scene; the body had been found on the edge of the river. Next they were off to NSY to look at the evidence from the previous murder. Bart’s after that and endless analysis. Sometime during all that, Sherlock’s fourth day awake started. John had been up for twenty five hours with one hot meal, one sandwich and five cups of coffee during all that time.

“Where to?” he asked, yawning, as he accompanied Sherlock out of Bart’s.

“I’m going to Scotland Yard,” Sherlock said, tugging his gloves on. “You are going home and getting some rest.”

John started shaking his head, but Sherlock wasn’t done.

“You’re exhausted, hungry, you keep yawning, and your shoulder hurts. I’ll solve it faster if you’re not there to distract me. And yes, I will call to tell you if I start seeing things that aren’t there.”

Observing Sherlock’s face carefully, John tried to find a good argument for why this was a terrible idea, but he _was_ hungry, and tired, and in pain, and he had noticed that Sherlock kept throwing looks at him that were somewhere between worried and exasperated.

“It’ll be fine,” Sherlock insisted.

It was the brief squeeze of his fingers over John’s that tipped the balance. They took separate cabs. As soon as he had given the cabbie their address, John called Greg, letting him know Sherlock was on his way and reminding him to call John if something happened.

He almost fell asleep in the cab, then again while eating his dinner of leftovers. When he finally climbed into bed, he barely had time to tell himself it’d have been a lot more comfortable with Sherlock there to keep him warm before he drifted into sleep.

It felt as though he’d just closed his eyes when the ringing of his phone woke him, but a quick glance at the alarm clock told him he’d caught four hours of sleep. He fumbled to pick up the phone from the night table, his stomach plummeting when he saw it was Greg calling.

“Is he hallucinating?” he asked as soon as he picked up, foregoing greetings.

Already, he was getting out of bed and gathering his clothes.

“No, that’s not it,” Greg said with some reluctance. “I left him alone for a moment and—”

John froze, his heart in his throat as a dozen unlikely scenarios presented themselves. Although, with Sherlock, even ‘unlikely’ didn’t mean impossible. 

“—I’m sorry, John. He fell asleep.”

Relief came first. Falling asleep was a lot better than running off after killers by himself.

Worry was quick to follow. Sherlock, asleep at NSY. When he’d wake up, he’d have no idea how he had ended up there. The Yarders knew about his condition, but they had no clue how to guide him through those first few moments. A disoriented, confused, frustrated Sherlock was never a good thing.

“Don’t wake him,” John said quickly. “Just… leave him alone and let him sleep. I’ll be there as fast as I can. But if he does wake up don’t let him leave.”

He hung up the call without waiting for Greg’s answer, got dressed in record time, and less than five minutes after waking up he was stepping into a thin, cold rain and wishing he had Sherlock’s near-magical talent to summon cabs out of nowhere at any time of the day or night.

Thirty-two minutes later, he was standing on the threshold of a conference room, watching Sherlock sleep, his arms folded on the table and his head pillowed on them.

“I’m sorry,” Greg said quietly. “I wasn’t even gone for five minutes. I went to get coffee. He was pacing when I left, so I didn’t think…”

His voice trailed off when John shook his head. “No reason for you to be sorry. He pushes his body so hard, he’s bound to crash down every now and then. I just wish—”

He bit his tongue rather than finishing that sentence. There was no point in wishing things could be easier. This was the situation they were in, and they’d have to deal with it, there was simply no way around that.

“Are we letting him sleep, then?” Greg asked after a few seconds. He must have noticed John’s jaw tightening because he added right away, “He needs the sleep, I get that, but he’s sleeping on my evidence and even if he can’t help I do need to keep working.”

John glanced at his watch. Assuming Greg had called him right away, Sherlock had been asleep for about forty minutes.

“Can you wait twenty minutes?” he asked. “That’ll give him a full hour. You know he’ll want to keep helping, and he needs to rest a bit if he’s going to figure out anything for you.”

Greg looked torn, but in the end he agreed. It certainly helped that he was exhausted too, that half his team was catching some sleep, and there was no doubt that he knew he wouldn’t get any closer to the answer without Sherlock’s help. Their killer had struck twice already, and Sherlock had seemed certain he’d kill again, and soon. Everything was a matter of time, now.

Twenty minutes felt like an eternity as John kept watch over Sherlock. It also felt much too soon that he was laying a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and gently shaking him awake.

Blinking owlishly, Sherlock raised his head and looked up at John, his brow already tightening in confusion.

“John? What…”

He blinked a few times as he looked around, and John could see the realization come over him that he was at Scotland Yard but had no idea how or when he’d gotten there.

“Sherlock, do you trust me?” John asked quietly.

Those confused, sleepy eyes turned back to him. “Trust… Yes, I… What—”

“Then come with me, please.”

John offered Sherlock his hand. Despite everything, he couldn’t quite stifle a smile when Sherlock took it after only the briefest of hesitations and let himself be pulled to his feet. Without thinking, John linked their fingers together and led Sherlock to the nearest bathroom. Under the glow of harsh fluorescent lights Sherlock seemed paler, the circles under his eyes, darker.

“I need you to unbutton your shirt,” John said, slowly undoing his own buttons. “Start with the left sleeve. I know you’re confused, but you’ll start to understand as soon as you look at your arm, I promise.”

With a look of complete bewilderment, Sherlock undid the cuff of his left sleeve and rolled it up. His frown deepened when he took in the words, tracing them with a finger. He looked up at John, his tongue briefly wetting his lips before he asked very low, “How long ago?”

“Four months,” John said calmly. “It’s October now. You’ve been doing really well. Helping the Met, composing, arguing with your brother. Just like nothing happened. I live with you now. Help you remember what you need to know. And also…” He gestured at Sherlock’s chest. “There’s something else, but you need to see it for yourself.”

Sherlock’s fingers were shaking when he unfastened his shirt. He was looking down, and quickly noticed the tattoo. His movements accelerating a little, he came close to popping the last two buttons in his haste to bare his chest. He faced the wide mirror on the wall, and John watched his lips move as he read the words silently. When he turned a questioning look to John, John was ready for him, and was holding his own shirt open, exposing his own tattoos, proving without a word that yes, this was real. Yes, something terrible had happened to Sherlock, but that didn’t mean good things couldn’t still happen.

Again, he mouthed the words, and a slight smile curled his lips. “How long for that?” he asked, even more quietly than before.

John smiled back. “It’ll be one month tomorrow.”

Sherlock’s smile widened. John always tried to let him make the first step and move at his own pace, but right now he’d have given just about anything to kiss him. He might even have done it if Greg hadn’t knocked twice on the door before peeking in.

“I’m sorry,” he started, then stopped as he took a look at them, his eyebrows climbing high up his forehead.

John’s cheeks felt very warm suddenly. He started doing his shirt up again. Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed wholly unconcerned about his state of undress.

“If I’m here,” he said, sounding as though he were musing aloud, “it means there’s a case. Tell me about it.”

Greg threw a questioning look at John, who nodded.

Back in the conference room, Greg walked Sherlock through the pictures of the crime scenes, the evidence they had recovered, the analysis Sherlock had done at Bart’s, the conclusions he’d shared with Greg so far.

There was also a new piece to the puzzle: the report that a young woman had been seen climbing into a red van an hour earlier when walking out of a club. The facts that the killer was driving a red van and found his victims in clubs were two of Sherlock’s deductions.

From that point on, Sherlock was caught in the same whirlwind of excitement he’d experienced when he first came onto this serial killings case. John thought of reminding him this wasn’t just a puzzle, it was also a question of life or death for the young woman who’d been taken, but in the end he said nothing. The reminder wouldn’t have helped Sherlock solve it any faster.

He went through every piece of evidence again, tapped away on his phone, paced, mumbled to himself fiercely enough that John wondered about hallucinations – but no, he was just trying to work it out, trying to solve it in time. It reminded John of a pink phone and the pips ringing through it; not exactly his favorite memory.

It took Sherlock four hours to come to an epiphany.

Four and a half hours later, they were accompanying the Met to the cluster of abandoned factories where Sherlock had said the killer took his victims before dumping them in the Thames.

With a team of twenty or so men, they searched the factories one by one. They found the van, the killer and the girl.

It was too late for the girl. She passed away only seconds after her killer surrendered.

“How long?” Sherlock asked for the third time that night, his gaze never lifting from her bloodied body. “How long was I asleep?”

John laid a hand on his arm and tried to guide him away. “Sherlock…”

Sherlock refused to budge. “How long, John?” he snapped, and his voice echoed in the empty factory.

“An hour,” John answered with a sigh. His hand tightened on Sherlock’s arm, hoping the touch would help anchor him. “You’d been awake for close to five days. You needed the rest.”

Without warning, Sherlock wrenched his arm free and punched the nearest wall. All around the factory, police officers and forensics team glanced toward them, the same tired, defeated light in all their gazes.

“You said I help the Met.” Sherlock’s voice was utterly blank; his eyes, flat and empty. “How can I do that, how can I do _anything_ if I forget the facts in the middle of a case?”

“You do help.” John took Sherlock’s wrist, raising his hand to check the damage. Just bruising. “You caught this guy and he won’t kill again. You’ve got a diary at home with all the cases you’ve solved. Let’s go back to Baker Street and you can see—”

“Yes, Baker Street,” Sherlock said, turning away and pulling free from John. “There’s nothing to do here. No point in staying.”

In only seconds, his long strides took him halfway through the factory. John watched him go, aching for him, unsure what to do to help.

“Is he okay?” Greg asked, coming to stand by John.

“He’ll be fine,” John murmured. “Once he forgets, he’ll be fine.”

At the entrance of the factory, Sherlock’s silhouette had stilled. He wasn’t looking back, but he was clearly waiting. John said his goodbyes and went to him, trying not to wonder if things would have been different if he’d gone back to NSY with Sherlock, if he’d awakened him as soon as he’d arrived there, _if_ … 

Sherlock would forget, and as John had said, he’d be fine.

And John would be fine, too, because blaming himself wouldn’t help Sherlock in the least. But damn, sometimes he wished he could forget, too.


	15. July 5th - Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you mean, early? It's Thursday in most of the world...

Sherlock flicks through the handful of post-it notes again, scowling.

“Is that all?” he sneers, directing a frown toward John.

“That’s all of it, yes,” John confirms, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “Is there something else you want to write down?”

Sherlock scoffs, though he doesn’t reply. Over a month has passed, and all he has is this: a few squares of paper with random notes in his handwriting. One of them warns him not to mention her sister to Mrs. Hudson unless he wants to be bored to death by her prattling about their latest visit. Why he thought this was worth noting, he cannot fathom as he usually pays little attention to what Mrs. Hudson says anyway. 

Another, more interesting note, dated of only a few days earlier, mentions that he shouldn’t discuss his illness with John as John blames himself for what happened. That’s good to know, if wholly incomplete: why on earth would John blame himself? And how can Sherlock fully understand what happened if he’s not allowed to ask questions?

“Why am I writing these?” he asks, dropping the stack of post-it’s on the floor and flinging himself down onto the sofa. “It’s ridiculous! Why would you make me do that?”

This time, it’s a full glare he directs at John, who rolls his eyes in reply.

“As if I can make you do anything,” he says, exasperated. “You thought it’d help. We watched this movie in which the character has the same condition you have and he manages it with notes, pictures and tattoos and—”

“You made me watch a movie in which _tattoos_ play a role?” Sherlock interrupts. “And you say you can’t make me do anything!”

John takes in a deep breath. His lips tighten to a thin line for a few moments.

“ _You_ decided to watch the movie,” he finally says. “I researched anterograde amnesia and saw that doctors praised the movie as a fairly accurate depiction of what it’s like, and when I mentioned it you decided to watch it.”

Sherlock throws his hands up. “Why would I do that? I know what it’s like! Obviously!”

His voice rises as he speaks, and he ends up on a shout. He’s not mad at John per se, just at the whole situation. He woke up two hours ago only to find John waiting for him in the sitting room and the pleasant surprise of seeing them quickly faded. It’s not his fault, Sherlock knows that, but as the bearer of bad news he’s an all too convenient target. And presumably, a frequent target, too; John watches him with the same sad resignation in his eyes as when he first told Sherlock about the amnesia.

“Of course you know what it’s like,” John says, and his voice takes on that soothing, ‘I’m a doctor and I will fix this if you let me’ tone that Sherlock has heard a few times, usually when he was craving a case, nicotine, or something much less legal to distract himself. “We’ve been trying to find a way to make things easier on you when you wake up, and the sticky notes were an attempt toward that. Clearly it’s not working.”

The last is said with that same resignation again, and that’s wrong, that’s so completely wrong that it makes Sherlock angry again. John shouldn’t sound like that, like life has dealt him an insurmountable blow – especially since Sherlock is the one with an incurable ‘condition’. John is stronger than that, a rock, unmovable, indomitable. Or at least, that’s what he should be. To see him like this makes all of it even worse.

Unable to face the pain on John’s features, Sherlock turns around, pressing his face to the back of the sofa, presenting his back to a world he wants no part of.

“Think of it as an experiment,” John continues. “It failed. Figure out why, and how to improve it so next time it works.”

The armchair creaks softly when he stands. He crosses the room, briefly resting a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder before walking on to the kitchen. The spot where he touched feels warm long after his hand has retreated.

An experiment, Sherlock repeats to himself as he listens to the familiar, comforting sounds of John making tea. Yes, it helps if he thinks of the notes that way. He now knows that they’re frustrating rather than helpful because they follow no pattern, are by necessity too short, and he can hardly add to them on those ridiculously small squares. The medium is clearly ill-fitted for the desired effect, but keeping notes does seem necessary. John can tell him what he needs to know, but he depends on Sherlock’s questions, and some questions Sherlock doesn’t care to ask him, not when they’re likely to bring back that resigned look Sherlock already hates so much.

“Sit up. I made tea.”

Sherlock does sit up, though he doesn’t take the mug John hands him and instead stands, going over to the desk. He starts riffling through it, then searches the boxes beneath it he never unpacked, some of them going all the way back to his university days.

“What are you doing?” John asks with a sigh, but already Sherlock has found what he wanted.

He sets the spiral-bound notebook on the desk, opens it flat and rips away the first few pages – chemistry class notes, taken before he realized he knew as much about the subject as the instructor, if not more. He hardly needs those anymore; those facts, he remembers quite well. It still leaves him a hundred or so pages, more than enough. Next he finds a couple of pens and returns to the sofa, his dressing gown flaring behind him. John is still standing there, a mug in each hand, watching him. He asks something about the tea, but Sherlock is too focused on what he’s doing to actually hear the question.

Thinking about the situation, it doesn’t take him long to identify the thing that frustrates him the most. He understands his diagnosis, but he knows very little about how it came to be. At the top of the first page, he writes, _Amnesia_ , and turns to the next page. That one is just as easy. _Living conditions_ , he writes, but what he means, and he’s sure he’ll know it next time he opens the notebook after waking up, is _John_.The how and why of John living with him. How not to bring that resigned, defeated look back to his face.

There’ll be more, no doubt, but this will be a good start.

He looks up from the notebook to find that John has left the mug of tea on the coffee table before sitting back down in his armchair with his own.

“New experiment?” John asks in between two sips.

Sherlock nods impatiently as he turns back to the first page. He’s about to start asking questions when something occurs to him. This notebook, if it works, will serve as an annex to his mind, storing what he can’t recall any other way. But there are many things in his mind he wouldn’t care to share with others, and presumably it will be true for this, too.

“I need a promise from you,” he says, annoyed that he even needs to ask. “You can’t read this. It’ll only work if I don’t have to be concerned about my thoughts being read by others.”

John doesn’t question this, or the purpose of the notebook. He only gives a slight nod. “You want my word, you have it.”

It’s silly, of course. If John breaks his promise, Sherlock is not likely to know it, nor will he even remember asking John for his word. But John _will_ remember, and his moral compass is as reliable as ever.

For the next hour or so, Sherlock asks John details about his illness, its treatment, his stay in the hospital, all those things John didn’t explain when Sherlock woke up. John looks increasingly pained, but he answers every question.

“Why didn’t you tell me all of this when I woke up?” Sherlock asks as he looks up from writing in the notebook. “You just gave me the big lines and that wasn’t anywhere near enough.”

John shrugs, then glances away. “I’ve done it before. You didn’t seem to like being given too much details all at once. You seem calmer when you get to ask the questions rather than when you’re just given answers.”

Sherlock think about it for a moment. No, that’s not it. It’s all information, and he doesn’t think he would mind if it was dumped on him rather than parceled out. The issue, he thinks, is the tightness at the corners of John’s eyes – it’s that note that warns not to discuss the illness with him. It pains him to talk about all this, and it pains Sherlock to see him in such discomfort, especially since he doesn’t understand its cause.

“Why do you mind telling me about all this?” he asks abruptly.

John gives him a grim smile. “Why do I mind telling you the same thing day after day?”

Is it the repetition? Sherlock considers that, but quickly dismisses the notion. John would have known what he was agreeing to when he moved back in. 

“There’s more to it,” he says decisively. “What else bothers you?”

The smile grows grimmer still. “What else?” he asks quietly. “Every day I get to tell my friend, the most brilliant man I know, that part of his brain is locked away and inaccessible to him. And every day it feels like telling Van Gogh he’s not allowed to paint anymore. How could I _not_ be bothered by it?”

Sherlock’s mouth opens, though to say what he has no idea. He closes it again and looks down at the notebook, flicking to the second page. It’s still blank. Even with what John promised, Sherlock doesn’t dare write what he wants.

_John still thinks I’m brilliant._

“I’m rubbish with a paintbrush,” he says, glancing up, and is glad when John relaxes a tiny bit. “But I’ll solve cases again. There’s no reason why I wouldn’t.”

He wishes John’s small nod and his murmured, “Of course,” didn’t seem like tokens offered to appease him.

He needs to find a way to fix things, he decides, so that this whole process goes faster and more smoothly – and so that John doesn’t have to tell him again, doesn’t have to hurt himself, over and over. The notebook will help, but will it be enough? He might not always have it with him, and besides it might take a while to read as it grows longer, while Sherlock knows quite well he can get impatient if he doesn’t get the facts he wants right away. He taps the pen onto the notebook, thinking. After a while, he asks, “That movie that started the notes. What was it? Do we still have it?”

Five minutes later, Sherlock has his laptop in front of him and the title credits roll up. _Memento_. He stifles a snort.

By the time the end credits start, he has to admit that it wasn’t _that_ bad. If anything the dual timelines helped make the storyline a little less dull and predictable. And while the notes idea didn’t help, maybe something else would…

Closing the laptop and setting it aside, he assumes his thinking pose to weigh the pros and cons. For one thing, needles are involved, and while Sherlock is hardly afraid of those, the connotations are less than helpful in his present state of mind. There’s also the fact that he was always loath to mark his body in such an indelible manner. It’s all transport, yes, but to himself if to no one else Sherlock can admit he likes the aesthetics of his own body, and altering it permanently is troubling.

“So?” John asks, coming back into the room after he begged off from watching the movie again. “What did you think of it?”

He didn’t want to watch it, Sherlock realizes, because the subject hits too close to his current life. And that’s the only pro Sherlock needs.

“I am going to get a tattoo,” he says, sitting up.

John looks at him with unmasked surprised. “You are? Huh. Last time you scoffed at the mere thought of it.”

“Last time,” Sherlock retorts, “I thought sticky notes would be enough. Clearly I can be wrong.”

If nothing else, the admission draws a small smile to John’s lips. He always enjoyed hearing Sherlock admit he was wrong. Nice to see that this, at least, hasn’t changed.

“So what are you going to get?”

The answer is easy. “My diagnosis. On my arm, where I can see it easily. From now on, rather than telling me, you’ll direct me to look at my arm, then at the notebook. I will still have questions, but they should be less numerous, making the waking process easier for both of us.” 

John mulls over that for a moment, and finally gives a small shrug. “Well, I hope it works because it’s rather final. Maybe you could just write it in marker, see how that goes for a few days?”

“No,” Sherlock replies at once. “I’d know it’s only temporary and I’d question why. It has to be permanent.” After a second or two, he adds, “And it has to be in my own handwriting.”

He tries to imagine it – imagine himself waking up, finding John in the flat again, being told to look at the words on his arm… Or maybe he’ll see the words first and have time to come to grips with that reality before he talks to anyone. Either way, it should be better than, “Please sit down, Sherlock, we need to talk,” offered with a painful smile.

An hour later, they’re at a small tattoo parlor across town, and if the owner looks a little perplexed by Sherlock’s request, he agrees to do it easily enough. While Leo prepares the stencil, John says, sotto voce, “This is just a one-time thing, right? You’re not going to have bits and pieces tattooed on you every time you wake up, are you?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Of course not. But it might not be the only tattoo. Something else might be important enough.”

“Something important,” John says as though musing aloud. “Like what?”

Sherlock shrugs and looks away. “No idea,” he lies.

Something like, _You told John and he never wants to see you again._ His stomach twists unpleasantly at the thought. He was so close to telling him, but now, it feels like it’d be a mistake. Ever since he woke up he’s been trying not to think about it, but it looms over him. He missed his chance.

“Okay,” John says slowly. “You got a promise from me today. Your turn. Promise you’re not going to cover yourself in tattoos.”

Sherlock isn’t going to do that, but he wonders why John would care if he did. It’s the ‘promise’ word that bothers him most, though.

“There’s no point,” he says, more coldly than he meant to. “Even if I promise, I’ll forget.”

“But I’ll remember,” John replies without missing a beat. “And I’ll remind you.”

Sherlock considers him for a moment, but before he can ask the question burning his lips, Leo is ready for him. Sherlock keeps quiet as the stark black lines of his own handwriting appear on the inside of his arm. He’s quiet, still, when Leo explains how to take care of the tattoo so the skin will heal properly; John listens closely enough for the two of them. Only when they climb into a cab to get back to Baker Street does he finally ask, “How long until you tire of it?”

To his credit, John doesn’t hesitate, not does he ask what ‘it’ is exactly.

“About as soon as I tire of breathing,” he replies evenly. “And unlike you I don’t think breathing is boring.”

Somehow, Sherlock breathes a little more easily after that.


	16. October 29th - John

The foam had long since dissipated, leaving only traces around the rim of John’s glass. He’d taken no more than a couple of sips from the dark brew, too lost in his thoughts to do much more than draw patterns on the condensation-covered glass.

He gave a small jolt when his phone buzzed. He glanced at it, half expecting, maybe even hoping to see a text from Sherlock. He’d let John leave the flat without a word, and hadn’t called or texted him in the hour and half since. John was feeling increasingly uncomfortable about that, especially given the tone of their argument at the time. Sherlock wasn’t going to hurt himself, he’d only been venting his frustration. As certain as John was of this fact, it didn’t make it any easier to be away from him.

The text wasn’t from Sherlock, although it did come from a Holmes.

_He’s back at that tattoo shop you two appear to favor. I’ll get him home when he’s done mutilating his body again.  
MH_

John frowned as he reread the text. Another tattoo? What would this one say? What, of the mess that today had proved to be, could Sherlock possibly want to remember that much?

“Mind if I sit down?” a woman asked, standing next to his booth.

He looked up with a forced smile, ready to say he was waiting for someone, and was surprised to find Donovan looking at him with a slightly uncomfortable expression. All he could manage to utter was an indecisive, “Huh…”

Politeness would demand that he invite her to sit, but she’d been less than gracious toward Sherlock the last time John had seen her, and in return he didn’t feel too inclined toward politeness.

“Lestrade told me you’d be here,” she said, shifting slightly where she stood. “He was called in for a meeting, he’s going to be late.”

Stifling a grimace, John gestured at the bench opposite him. She slid in, taking her jacket off and ordering a pint from the passing waitress. John observed her openly, wondering what she was up to. He thought he knew, and the prospect had acid burning the back of his throat. He took a sip to chase it away.

“I don’t know what Greg told you,” he said warningly, “but if you’re here to tell me _again_ that I’m making a mistake by sticking with Sherlock…”

He trailed off when she raised both hands palms out toward him and shook her head.

“No,” she said, “I promise, that’s not why I’m here. And all he said was that he was supposed to meet you here and was going to be late, nothing more. I offered to keep you company until he comes in.”

It would have been nice if it’d been anyone other than Donovan, and John didn’t bother keeping the confusion from his features when he asked, “Why? We’re hardly best mates.”

She looked away. The waitress bringing her beer gave her a few seconds to find an answer, and what she finally said after taking in a deep breath was, “I wanted to apologize to you about some things I’ve said. And try to explain why I said them.”

John couldn’t suppress a small snort. Now this promised to be good.

“And you think an explanation will make those _things_ you said any better?”

She shook her head. “Probably not. I’m not trying to give you excuses. Just…” She sighed. “Listen, it’s just… I made a mistake, all right?”

Taking another sip of beer, John gestured for her to go on. It wasn’t the apology he’d been hoping to get today, but he supposed it wouldn’t hurt to listen to her.

“Back before he… before he faked his death,” she started again. “When I thought he’d orchestrated all of it. I mean, I was doing my job. Everything pointed toward it. What was I supposed to think?”

John gave her a tight-lipped smile. “It doesn’t sound anything like an apology so far.”

She huffed quietly. “It’s not you I owe an apology to for that mistake. And that’s the problem. When he came back, I meant to apologize. I really did. But every time I saw him, he’d say something and… you know how he is. He likes to rile me up for no reason.”

She paused, as though expecting John to confirm that Sherlock was a prat – which he was, no doubt there, but John didn’t care much to agree with her right at that moment. 

“From what I’ve seen,” he said dryly, “the riling up is mutual. So if you expect my sympathy, you’ll be waiting for a long time.”

Her frustration sharpened her words. “No, I just want you to understand… I was going to apologize, all right? I wanted to. We’ve never seen eye to eye, he and I, but I thought we could start fresh. Be civil toward each other at least. But then he got sick. And now it’s too late.”

John raised an eyebrow at her, nonplussed. “You wanted to be civil toward him? Seriously? You keep bringing up his condition to him _and_ to me even months after he proved he can still outsmart any of us on his worst days. Not trying all that hard, are you?”

At that, she actually winced. “That’s what I wanted to apologize about. I don’t mean to do it, I just get so angry about it. I mean, I’m not pretending I like him all that much, but I do know how smart he is, and it’s just so messed up for him to lose his memories over and over. I can’t even imagine how hard that’s got to be on him. And on you, too. And then you both show up at a crime scene, and you act like nothing happened, like everything’s fine, and I just… I don’t know how to act around him, all right? First he was accused of something he didn’t do, his reputation was trashed to the point he had to pretend he was dead, and now this, and I can’t tell him I’m sorry I accused him, and I can’t say I’m sorry this happened to him either because he wouldn’t remember and the next time he’d be back to sniping at me again. And it’s all so… frustrating!”

Halfway through her little speech, she looked down into her half-empty glass and wouldn’t look up at John again after that, giving him ample opportunity to consider her. From her frown to her tightly pinched lips, she looked as upset as she sounded. In truth, John had little reason not to trust she was anything other than sincere. And if he was completely honest with himself, he understood her anger, her frustration – and her guilt. He also understood how all three could make people act in the most irrational ways, and make them say things they regretted later. He’d seen it earlier with Sherlock, and he’d done it himself, too. Although he certainly hoped he’d never been as pigheaded as Donovan had been showing herself.

“Donovan?” he said quietly, drawing her gaze back to him. “I’m only gonna say this once, so listen very carefully. Ready?” He leaned forward over the table. “Get. Over. It.”

Her head snapped up and she looked affronted. John went on without giving her a chance to speak.

“If you’re really sorry, then tell him. Either he won’t give a damn and shrug it off and you can just move on knowing he’d have forgotten just as quickly if you’d said it six months ago, or it’ll actually mean something to him, and he’ll put it in his diary to remember it. Either way, you’ve said your piece and you can stop being angry about something that really has nothing to do with you.”

“I know it doesn’t have anything to do with me,” she snapped. “I just—”

She stopped abruptly, closed her eyes, and took a breath in through her nose, letting it out through her mouth. She repeated the process twice before opening her eyes again. Ella had once tried to teach John ‘breathing exercises’ she’d said would help him clear his mind. He’d tried it once and felt like an absolute idiot. It seemed to be working for Donovan, though John would be damned before asking if she was seeing a therapist.

“Apology accepted,” he said wryly. “If all this was your way of apologizing for disparaging my relationship with Sherlock. And if it means you won’t do it again.”

She nodded stiffly. “I’m trying,” she said, back to not looking at him. “I can’t guarantee—”

“As long as you keep trying,” he cut in. “But don’t expect me to let anything pass if you slip up.”

She nodded again, taking a long gulp from her beer before she asked, “And you think it’d help if I talked to him? Really?”

“What I think is that you might need to say it more than he needs to hear it. So yeah. Go ahead. Just, do it after he’s solved something if you want him to even hear you.”

He raised his glass and tilted it toward her. After a second, she clinked hers against it, almost empty that it was.

“Are we celebrating something?” Greg said, approaching the booth.

“Good beer and good friends,” Donovan said, emptying her glass. “Although you’ll have to continue without me.”

She said her goodbyes while Greg took her seat. It didn’t take long before he had a pint of his own in front of him, and John a fresh one, and not much longer after that before he cautiously asked if everything was all right. After John’s text to him earlier that evening - _Sherlock’s a bloody idiot and I need a pint. Interested?_ \- John had known he’d ask. He’d hoped for it, too. Right now, a sympathetic ear was exactly what John needed, and Greg provided it quite expertly, along with appropriate noises of disbelief and commiseration in all the right places.

All in all, by the time he’d finished venting, they’d emptied their glasses and chatted for a bit, John felt a lot better. And when Mycroft called in to say Sherlock looked about ready to go home, John was ready as well. Or almost. Greg ended up driving him to Angelo, wishing him good luck before they said goodbye. 

Angelo had been a lot friendlier recently, having apparently forgiven John the imagined sin of dumping Sherlock. After inquiring whether Sherlock would join him, he led John to their usual table by the window, lit the obligatory candle, and brought two glasses of Sherlock’s favorite wine before taking John’s order. Just as he walked away, John’s phone chimed.

_Hungry?  
SH_

Through the window, he could see Sherlock on the other side of the street. Smiling to himself, he sent a reply.

_Starving._   
_Get in here already. I ordered for both of us._

In moments, Sherlock was seated across from him. He met John’s eyes briefly before looking away and into the street. An apology was unlikely, John realized, though he hadn’t really expected one. Hoped for, yes, but not expected. And after venting to his heart’s content, he didn’t really need it.

“How’s your brother?” he asked, just to say something.

Sherlock shrugged and glanced toward John. “As annoying as ever. It’s good to see some things don’t change.”

John snorted quietly. Mycroft and Sherlock’s relationship was indeed one thing that had not been altered in the slightest by Sherlock’s condition, or at least not in any visible way. Mycroft probably worried even more now than he had before, but he knew Sherlock well enough not to show it.

“And how is Lestrade?” Sherlock asked in reply.

John didn’t bother asking how he knew. 

“Fine. They’re having him reopen an old case about a disappearance. He said he might need your help—”

Interest lit Sherlock’s eyes at that, and John hurried to finish. “—but only after you get a good night of sleep. You’re on day three.”

Sherlock’s mouth twisted in a grimace and he looked out into the street again.

“I know that,” he muttered.

Angelo brought in their food, exclaiming how nice it was to see Sherlock and how good he looked. Like half of London, he’d read about Sherlock’s illness in tabloids and always made a point to comment that Sherlock looked well. It annoyed John just as much as it did Sherlock, though Angelo was oblivious to hints that he ought to stop.

To John’s mild surprise, Sherlock did more than push his pasta around the plate, and this without pointed reminders that he should eat. It was probably Sherlock’s attempt at a wordless apology; or at least, John took it as such. 

They were about done with dessert – tiramisu; Angelo had insisted – when John’s curiosity got the best of him.

“So, what’s the new tattoo?” he asked, looking over Sherlock and trying to guess, with no more luck as when he’d tried earlier, where the tattoo in question might be.

Sherlock’s answer came with a shrug. “Just something I need to remember,” he said before trying to change the subject. “Are you done?”

“I’m done,” John confirmed, “but you’re not. I know it’s something you want to remember. Care to tell me what it is?”

But Sherlock wouldn’t say. All the way home, John tried to point out it was silly; he’d see it soon enough. Sherlock remained unmovable. His stubbornness was something else that hadn’t changed with his illness. He even tried to hide after he’d undressed for bed, finally relenting when John gave him his best ‘you can’t be serious’ look.

Deciphering words from right to left wasn’t an issue.

Understanding what they were supposed to mean, on the other hand…

John’s legs felt a little weak and he had to sit down on the edge of the bed. Still standing, Sherlock watched him with an unreadable expression.

“That,” John said, “is the most stupid thing you could have had inked onto your body.”

Sherlock raised his chin at once, bristling. “It’s not. It’s something I need to remember.”

John shook his head. “It’s not _true_ , so it’s certainly not worth remembering.”

“Well of course you say that,” Sherlock said, walking around the bed to get in on his side. “You’ve forgiven me. This time. And maybe next time you will forgive as well. And the time after that. But there’ll come a day—”

“No.”

John had heard enough. Turning toward Sherlock, he drew him onto his back and knelt by his side, looking down at him.

“No,” he said again, his voice shaking in its intensity. “If one of us leaves, Sherlock, it’s not going to be me. I’ll get mad at you, sure. Some things will be harder to forgive, certainly. But you’re acting like this is all new to me. Like you somehow tricked me into loving you and expect me to change my mind when I realize what you’re like. Don’t you see? I _know_ what you’re like. I knew from the moment you took me to a crime scene to make a point, abandoned me there, and later demanded I come back to Baker Street so I could send a text for you to a serial killer.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched toward a smile. “Don’t forget running after a cab through London.”

John’s hand slackened on Sherlock’s shoulder before sliding up to cup his cheek.

“No, we definitely can’t forget that,” he said with a small smile of his own. “Or the fact that you let me think you’d committed suicide for two years and that I _forgave_ you for it. There’s only one thing I wouldn’t forgive, Sherlock. I could never forgive you if you did it for real.”

Under his fingers, Sherlock’s jaw tensed, then relaxed again.

“It was just words,” he said in a gruff voice. “I was just annoyed. I wouldn’t have done it.”

John nodded. “I know. But as far as words go, I’m not sure you could have picked worse ones.”

“I’ll do better,” Sherlock said, his hand rising to touch his own chest and the words there. “I’ll _be_ better.”

“You don’t have to. All I need is for you to be yourself.”

With that, he leaned down and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s, drawing back after a few seconds when Sherlock tried to deepen the kiss.

“I also need you to get some sleep,” he said as sternly as he could manage. “And don’t bother saying you’re not tired. You got into bed without arguing, I know what that means.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him; back to normal, then.

“Aren’t you coming to bed?” Sherlock asked, and from his tone sleep was the last thing on his mind.

“I’m going to take a shower first.”

Sherlock’s protests didn’t deter John and he left the room to clean up for the night. By the time he came back, Sherlock was snoring quietly. John didn’t let himself be disappointed; after three days, Sherlock needed the sleep, even if he didn’t like to admit it. Before joining him in bed, John went to the sitting room to find a permanent marker. It was awkward to write on himself, but he managed well enough. They’d have to do something about that obnoxious third line on Sherlock’s chest, but until then…

 _Be better or John will leave you_ , Sherlock’s new tattoo said.

John’s reply was and always would be two simple words.

_I won’t._


	17. June 27th - Sherlock

Sherlock is just about finished taking a thorough inventory of his mind palace when he hears a door opening downstairs, and voices. They’re too low for him to recognize them, let alone catch words, but he’s immediately sure that one of them belongs to John. After all, he said he wouldn’t be long. He even seemed rather hesitant about leaving Sherlock alone to go do some much needed shopping.

It’s good that he is back. Sherlock has a dozen questions to ask him about the illness, his time in the hospital, even the afternoon when it all started. John looked reluctant to talk about it when Sherlock woke up, as though the topic was painful. Why it would be painful to him when Sherlock is the one afflicted is rather baffling. Unless…

What if Sherlock missing memories start before the hospital? What if he went through with that horrendous plan of his and told John?

No, he didn’t. He couldn’t have. He was too sick, he couldn’t have gone through with it. Unless he was delirious and didn’t know what he was doing. But if that’s the case, what did John think? He’s here rather than with his wife, but he didn’t even give a hint that he knows of Sherlock’s feelings. It’s all very confusing. And frustrating. Sherlock doesn’t like not understanding things. He doesn’t like to be missing so many parts of a puzzle that he can’t see the broad picture. He doesn’t like either that wary gleam he saw in John’s eyes.

As he tries to decide which question to ask first, he listens absently to the sounds of steps coming up the staircase, and realizes it’s not John. Mrs. Hudson, he thinks. And someone with her. Somewhat light steps; woman. Dragging her feet a bit; she doesn’t want to be there. She didn’t ring the bell and went to Mrs. Hudson’s first; she’s familiar with the building and landlady, yet Mrs. Hudson, no doubt following John’s request to keep an eye on Sherlock, is taking her upstairs to see him. There’s only one person it could be. Standing from the sofa, Sherlock strides to his room. 

He’s not talking to Mary while in his pajamas.

For most visitors, he’d have thrown on a dressing gown, if even that. He assisted a client while wearing nothing more than a sheet, once. He even went to Buckingham palace in that same sheet to make a point. But this is not just any visitor coming up. It’s the woman who claimed John as hers while Sherlock was away. The woman who told him, two weeks before their wedding day, “You may be his best friend and his best man, but I’m going to be his wife. Don’t forget that.” The woman John apparently left behind to care for Sherlock. 

“Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson calls as she enters the apartment. “Are you awake, dear? You have a visitor.”

Already shedding his clothes to pull on more proper ones, Sherlock snorts to himself. If he wasn’t awake, then being awakened by such a call would certainly confuse the hell out of him. It’s hard enough when John is there, he can’t imagine what it’d be like without him.

“I’ll only be a moment,” he calls back. “Why don’t you offer her tea?”

“Not your housekeeper, dear,” Mrs. Hudson replies, but he knows she’ll be playing hostess while he gets dressed, inviting Mary to sit and offering her refreshments.

He puts on a full suit, and even slides on shoes. Dust dulls the leather; it looks as though he hasn’t worn them in a few days. Checking himself in the mirror, he combs his hair with his fingers before deciding that’s good enough. Hand on the door handle, he takes a deep breath and goes to battle.

He comes across Mrs. Hudson first in the kitchen, and she gives him an approving once-over. 

“It’s nice to see you dressed, Sherlock,” she says, stroking his arm lightly. “Why don’t you go say hello, I’ll be right over with your tea.”

He walks on, immediately annoyed when he sees that Mary is sitting in John’s chair. Granted, the alternative was for her to take Sherlock’s, which wouldn’t be any better, but Sherlock can’t suppress the feeling. He sits across from her, greeting her with a slight nod and a single word.

“Mary.”

Deep circles under her eyes make her look older. She applied a liberal coat of make up to try to disguise them, but they’re still there, darkening her gaze as she observes him.

“Sherlock. All better, I see.”

He gives her a thin smile, the one he usually reserves for Anderson when he says something particularly stupid.

“Yes, of course you _see_. Encephalitis and its effects can be observed by the way a person dresses. How clever of you to notice.”

A flash of anger distorts her features. Whatever reply she meant to make is silenced when Mrs. Hudson brings them each a cup of tea. She asks if they want biscuits and hovers when Sherlock declines, wringing her hands in front of her, wondering whether she should stay or not. 

“We’ll be fine, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock says pointedly. “Goodbye for now.”

She gives him a reproachful look, no doubt because he’s being rude, but leaves anyway.

“So, it’s not just John,” Mary mutters against the rim of her cup. “You’ve got Mrs. Hudson fooled, too, huh? Anyone else? Surely your brother didn’t fall for the act. Is he in on it, then?”

His annoyance growing deeper, Sherlock sets his tea aside. “Whether you believe me ill or not is none of my concern,” he says sharply.

She actually laughs at that, a dry, angry bark of laughter.

“You don’t look ill. You don’t sound ill either. You’re just you. You certainly didn’t forget how to be rude. Or how to manipulate John.”

Briefly, Sherlock considers defining anterograde amnesia for her, and pointing out that he’s lost twenty five days so far but remembers just about every moment of the three decades before that. What purpose would it serve, though? She’s made up her mind already. She can’t see the damage, so for her it doesn’t exist. Nothing Sherlock says is going to change that. She decided he was bad news the moment she set eyes on him months ago – and in truth, he decided the same thing about her.

“Why are you here?” he asks.

She shifts in her seat, putting away her cup and finally pulling a thick envelope she’d wedged against the side of the armchair. She shows it to Sherlock before setting it on the table next to her, on top of a pile of mail Mrs. Hudson must have brought up.

“I came to give this to John,” she says, frowning at the mail. “But I see I could have just sent it through the post. He already gets his mail here. He really didn’t lose any time.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply. The timeline of events is a little unclear in his mind, and he’s not quite sure how long John has been living in Baker Street again.

“I wish he could see you the same way the rest of us do,” Mary says, her cold eyes back to Sherlock. “Two years of him feeling guilty for your death, you swoop in without so much as an apology, and before three days have passed it’s like nothing happened. And now this. Luring him away from his job to check on you. Playing the doctor card, playing on his guilt again when he can’t _save_ you. Shamming a life-changing illness so he’ll take care of you.”

“You’re wrong,” he says, but doesn’t bother listing all the ways in which she’s mistaken, because something she said is suddenly explaining a lot about John. Guilt? Is that really his motivation, here? Months ago, when he shouted at Sherlock, some of it came through as he raged about not being able to stop a suicide that wasn’t one, something Sherlock hadn’t imagined he’d feel. But now… He’s a doctor. He has to know there was nothing for him to do. Doesn’t he?

“Did you even stop for a second to think he had a home and a wife?” Mary asks, and now she sounds tired and sad. “Did _he_ stop and think about that before he agreed to all this?”

Again, Sherlock has no answer for her. He doesn’t remember asking, doesn’t remember John saying yes.

“Of course not,” Mary says as she stands. “I don’t know why I bothered asking. Well, congratulations. I hope you’ll be very happy together. Until he realizes you’re a fraud and you break his heart again.”

She leaves without a word of goodbye, leaving Sherlock confused beyond words. He doesn’t care one bit that she thinks he’s shamming. If she wants to willfully be blind, it’s her issue, not his. But what on earth does she mean by ‘break his heart again’? And the guilt thing…

“Everything all right, Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson asks in a soft voice.

He gives her an absent nod. “Fine,” he says. “Just fine.”

‘Fine’ is a stupid word and if she knew him at all she’d realize he’s anything but. Or maybe she does know him, because she pats his shoulder as she retrieves his cup of cold tea along with Mary’s.

“She didn’t upset you, did she? She said she wanted to visit and see how you were. Maybe I should have stayed.”

“It’s fine,” he says again, his eyes drifting to the envelope she left behind. Divorce papers. It has to be. “Don’t tell John she came by. It’d only upset him.”

She heaves a deep sigh on the way to the kitchen.

“Sometimes,” she says as she rinses the cups, “I wonder why he married her. She’s a lovely girl, but they weren’t meant to be together like this. She’s not… well.”

Her words distract Sherlock from his confusion and he waits for her to finish. When she doesn’t, he prompts impatiently, “Not what?”

Coming back into the sitting room, Mrs. Hudson gives him a sad little smile. “She’s not you, dear. And I do wish he’d figured it out before all this.”

With that, she leaves, and her steps down the staircase fade long before Sherlock’s bafflement does. Why does everyone believe the two of them are together in that way? What is Sherlock missing here? Wouldn’t have John told him if something had happened to bring them closer?

As repulsive as the prospect is, Sherlock can only think of one person who might be able to answer – one person other than John, and John already proved he didn’t care to talk about it. Picking up his phone, Sherlock considers texting, but texts could be ignored while a call won’t be. He dials, and the phone only rings once before Mycroft answers.

“Sherlock? Are you all right?”

The worry in his voice is enough to cause Sherlock to grimace. He doesn’t reply and asks instead, “Were you there when arrangements were made about my care at home?”

After a beat, Mycroft replies warily. “Was I there when John agreed to live with you and you signed your trust fund to him? Of course I was. Why? What happened? Did he change his mind?”

The thought had not occurred to Sherlock until this moment that John might change his mind, and suddenly it’s obvious that he will, sooner or later. Why wouldn’t he? What satisfaction can he find in this sort of life?

“What did he say when he agreed?” Sherlock asks, ignoring Mycroft’s question. “ _Why_ did he agree? Did you twist his arm? Did you say something that—”

“I was little more than a witness,” Mycroft cuts in with a little huff. “It was your decision to ask him and I had nothing to do with it. As a matter of fact, I suggested other alternatives which you rejected.”

“But what did he _say_?” Sherlock insists.

“I don’t know why you’re asking me rather than him. He said ‘Of course’. That was just about it. Now is there anything else, Sherlock? I am rather busy and—”

Sherlock disconnects the call with a raging press of his thumb. 

Of course.

 _Of course_.

What the hell does that mean? It doesn’t explain anything at all. If anything, it confirms what Mary suspected – that she didn’t factor into John’s decision. But why not? Surely, he should have thought of her. He married her, after all. Or was the marriage already over at that point? Sherlock had noticed a few things since their wedding, but he thought it’d take longer. And besides, they were seeing a therapist together. John hadn’t mentioned it, but it’d been obvious. So why ‘of course’?

He’s still no closer to finding an answer when John returns, tottering from the weight of too many shopping bags.

“A little help?” he calls out, but the words don’t register, and Sherlock watches him, taking in every little detail, trying to figure out the answer to a question he wouldn’t know how to phrase if he had to voice it.

John throws him a glance that’s somewhere between amused and exasperated, but he puts his purchases away in the fridge and cupboards without asking for help again.

“I see you got dressed,” he says instead. “Are we going somewhere?”

‘We’. Does it mean something? Well, it certainly means that John thinks Sherlock shouldn’t go anywhere on his own, but apart from that?

“No, I just… felt like getting out of my pajamas.”

Done in the kitchen, John comes over to the sitting room.

“Well, since you are dressed, maybe we could go out for dinner.” Noticing the mail on the table, he picks up the lot and browses through the envelopes. “You haven’t been out of the flat since you came home from hospital,” he says absently, setting most of the mail down to open the thick envelope that was on top. “It’ll do you good to get some fresh air.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, and watches instead as John’s eyebrows climb up his forehead as he starts reading. Soon, though, he’s frowning, his lips pressed to a thin line, his hand shaking. Upset.

Upset because of divorce papers he surely had an inkling he’d be given sooner or later, seeing how he moved out of his house.

Did he believe he could work things out with Mary regardless of where he lived?

Is that why Mycroft’s first thought was that John had changed his mind about living with Sherlock?

An ache is growing inside Sherlock’s chest, making it a little hard to breathe, or even to answer when John shoves the papers back in the envelope and asks, more sharply than before, “So? Dinner?”

But it’s clear he has no desire to go to dinner with Sherlock.

“Sorry,” Sherlock mutters. “I’m tired. I’ll go to bed now.”

It might be the worst lie he’s ever uttered for John’s benefit, but John, as always, doesn’t notice. He just nods absently, his attention still on the envelope Mary delivered. It’s doubtful he even notices when Sherlock stands and leaves the room. In his bedroom, Sherlock leans back against the door and closes his eyes. Mary’s wrong. Mrs. Hudson is wrong. Every last person who ever thought John might see more in Sherlock than a friend is wrong – Sherlock included. And Sherlock is going to have to relearn that painful truth every time he wakes up for the rest of his life.

For a long, long time he considers the bottle of sleeping pills on his night table, wondering how many it would take. When he finally goes to sleep, it’s without their help. He doesn’t want to add to John’s guilt.


	18. November 15th - John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ever had one of those days when you wished one of the fics you follow would update because damn, a bit of shiny would be nice?
> 
> None of the fics i read is due to update for at least a couple of days so i had to play with the boys. and when i say play... ahem.
> 
> ETA - One of the fics i follow updated \o/
> 
> (Will try to update on Thursday again as scheduled but no promises.)

It was past three in the morning when they climbed out of the cab. John had to let go of Sherlock’s hand to pay the fare. He then unlocked the door and held it open, closing behind Sherlock. As he followed him up the stairs, he did a quick bout of mental arithmetic. It had been at least fifteen hours since Sherlock had had something to eat, and even then it’d only been a few bites of a sandwich to appease John. He needed food, and sleep, although John wasn’t sure in which order. It depended on one thing, really.

“Do you still see him?” he asked as they entered the sitting room together.

Sherlock turned to him, his hands frozen halfway through untying his scarf.

“See him?” he repeated, an eyebrow raised.

John winced. He could only blame his tiredness for the slip.

“Them. The hallucinations. Do you still see them?”

Sherlock finished to take off his coat and scarf, though his gaze didn’t lift from John.

“No. Not since I solved the case. A jolt of adrenaline chased them away, I think.”

John nodded absently. Whether it was adrenaline or something else, it had happened before that the successful end of a case had given Sherlock a few more lucid hours.

“All right. Good. I know it’s late but I’d like you to try to eat something. Is that okay?”

When Sherlock agreed, John walked into the kitchen to warm up some leftovers. Take-out in the middle of the night just before bed probably wasn’t all that healthy, but at least it was something.

While John prepared a plate, Sherlock settled on the sofa with his diary and scribbled feverishly. John watched him from the kitchen, knowing he was writing about the case, wondering just how different Sherlock’s description of it would be from the write up John would do for the blog. As tempting as sneaking a peek was, John had never done it, nor did he plan to. After all, he had given Sherlock his word.

The microwave pinged behind him. He brought the plate to Sherlock, who pulled the coffee table closer to the sofa so he could continue writing with his right hand while eating absently with the left. The first time John had seen him do this, he’d been surprised, though in retrospect he should have known that Sherlock would have taught himself to use both hands interchangeably. If nothing else, he’d have seen it as a challenge. 

Sitting in his armchair, John thought to himself, not for the first time, that as devastating as Sherlock’s condition was, few people would have been better equipped to deal with it than Sherlock was. For him, it was only another challenge, and all things considered he wasn’t doing badly at all so far. John was glad he was able to help a little, but some days he wondered whether Sherlock wouldn’t have found a way to thrive on his own, too. He was certainly stubborn enough. Still, that was something they’d never know.

Sherlock was apparently done with his diary. Setting it aside, he picked up the plate and switched the fork to his right hand. Sitting back as he ate, he observed John, who smiled mindlessly.

“You know what form my hallucinations take,” Sherlock said after a few mouthfuls.

John’s smile melted away. “I know some forms they’ve taken in the past,” he said slowly, weighing each word. That was a topic he could do without talking about. “Are you finished? It’s past time you got some sleep.”

Sherlock, not so surprisingly, ignored the mention of sleep.

“Forms?” he said sharply. “Plural? You know for a fact that there have been several incarnations?”

“No,” John admitted with a quiet sigh. “The ones I was able to guess were always the same person.”

For a few seconds, Sherlock considered him intently, as though he could read the answer right on John’s face – not a new feeling, but never all that pleasant. In the end, he said one word.

“Moriarty.”

John grimaced. “Yes. So it was him again today?”

Sherlock’s brow tightened into a slight frown. “Yes. I was wondering if it was always him. Lestrade didn’t know, but I’d hardly confide in him anyway. Do you know…”

When he didn’t finish the question, John tried to take a guess. “Do I know what? What he says to you?” At Sherlock’s slight nod, he continued. “Just one thing. I know he tells you I’m going to leave. And I hope you know that’s not true.”

Pushing himself out of his armchair, John came over to the sofa. With one hand, he took the plate Sherlock hadn’t touched in a little while. With the other, he brushed Sherlock’s hair off his forehead. Sherlock tilted his head up into the soft touch, looking up at John.

“Do you?” he asked softly.

Sherlock licked his lips before answering. “I do. That doesn’t mean I have any control over what my subconscious throws at me.”

“No, I suppose not. And your subconscious does seem to be just as bloody stubborn as the rest of you.”

“I’m not stubborn,” Sherlock protested.

John snorted. “Prove it. Go to bed without arguing like a five year old.”

A small gleam lit Sherlock’s eyes. John knew it quite well. It usually accompanied words like ‘I’m not tired’. Maybe because of the challenge John had just issued, Sherlock did not voice the blatant lie and said instead, “I need a shower.”

“A quick one,” John admonished. “And then you need sleep.”

He offered his free hand to Sherlock and helped him up. Sherlock didn’t let go at once. Standing very close to John, he observed him through eyes darkened by wide pupils. 

“When I woke up,” he said very quietly, “I was alone. But we usually share a bed now, don’t we?”

John would never tire of the way Sherlock blushed, delicate pink suffusing his pale face.

“We do,” John confirmed with a thin smile. “Or at least, when you sleep during regular sleeping hours. I’m not much for kipping in the middle of the day, even if it means depriving you of a source of heat to latch on to.”

“So you’ll sleep in my bed tonight?”

John nodded.

“What about more than sleeping?” Sherlock asked, his voice a low, deep rumbling.

He couldn’t possibly be aware of what that voice always did to John, how it shot through him, intoxicating and arousing. Aware or not, however, he used that voice like a well-crafted weapon, and hit dead center every time.

“You need sleep,” John repeated hoarsely.

Sherlock’s only reply was a small smile before he finally stepped away and toward the bathroom. John watched him go, unable to completely stifle a groan. He knew that smile. That was Sherlock’s patented ‘I will get what I want simply because I always get what I want’ smile.

And how could he not get what he wanted, really, when John wanted it too?

The past few days had been all about the case, and John had no problem with that. It was part of who Sherlock was, part of what made him _Sherlock_ \- and part of what made his life worth living now that it had been altered forever. It was no hardship for John to step back and watch him work, and he’d done so without a second thought. But the dynamic had switched in the cab that had brought them home, and again just a moment ago. 

“He needs sleep,” John muttered to himself as he took Sherlock’s plate to the kitchen then made his way to the bedroom. “For that matter, _I_ need sleep. It’s not like there’s any rush. We’ll both still be there tomorrow.”

But tomorrow would start again with Sherlock rediscovering his condition and everything that came with it, and while the process had become much smoother, he’d need a bit of time to adjust. For that matter, if he didn’t sleep enough – something that happened much too often – John would send him back to bed sooner rather than later. Would it be so bad, really, to have a few more minutes with a Sherlock who was aware of everything?

John’s subconscious must have come to a conclusion before he did, because it occurred to him as he climbed into bed and drew the covers over him that he had stripped down completely rather than put on the old t-shirt – Sherlock’s – and boxers he usually wore at night.

Before he had time to change his mind or even berate himself for it, Sherlock came in from the bathroom, a towel around his waist. Even in the faint light from the night lamp, his skin had a rosy hue from the hot water of his shower. He seemed oddly hesitant, standing by the side of the bed, watching John, and for a second John was about to ask him if something was wrong. And then he realized – How could he have forgotten, really? Was he that tired? – that this was, again, all new for Sherlock. He didn’t remember ever climbing into bed with John, or being nude in front of him, or anything else.

With a soft smile, John folded back the covers, inviting Sherlock into bed with a quiet, “Get in before you get cold.”

Sherlock dropped the towel only a fraction of a second before sliding in bed, preserving his modesty. John couldn’t help laughing quietly.

“I’ve seen it all before, you know.”

“I realize that.” Sherlock rolled onto his side, mirroring John though remaining far enough that they weren’t in any danger of touching. “And it doesn’t help. If anything, I feel like I need to catch up but…” His face was slowly turning crimson. “I’m sure by now you’re well aware this is not an area in which I’m an expert.”

Laughing quietly, John shifted closer to him. 

“What I know,” he said, slowing reaching up to lay a gentle hand against Sherlock’s cheek, “is that, as incredible as it sounds, you don’t give yourself nearly enough credit. And you don’t have to catch up. You don’t have to do anything. Actually it’d probably be better if you went to sleep before we end up with an audience.”

John really wished he could have sounded more forceful, but it was rather difficult to convince both himself and Sherlock at the same time, especially when his thumb, stroking Sherlock’s cheek, encountered silky smooth skin. Sherlock usually shaved in the morning, but he’d shaved the trace of facial hair that had been darkening his cheeks. He’d shaved for John.

“Is that something that has happened?” Sherlock asked very quietly. The back of his fingers brushed against John’s wrist before following his arm back to his shoulder. “An audience, I mean.”

“Not that I know of, but would you tell me if he was standing there and critiquing my technique?”

Just as he said the last word, Sherlock’s fingers found his scar. They always did, sooner or later. That was one part of him he hadn’t cared to show Sherlock before, and he’d quickly learned it was useless to try to hide it now. As scornful as Sherlock could be of ‘sentiment’, as difficult as it still was for him to say the words, he was as single-minded when it came to knowing every little bit of John as he could be in front of a three-patch problem.

Sherlock shifted closer to John and pulled the covers down to expose his shoulder completely. “He could be standing there,” he murmured, “and singing God Save the Queen to the top of his lungs and I might not notice right now.”

That was easy to believe when his entire focus had turned to the pale, raised skin under his fingertips. He traced every millimeter of it, then slid his fingers to the back of John’s shoulder, seeking its counterpart. John allowed him that bit of exploration without protests, but after a few more seconds, Sherlock froze and sought his gaze.

“Is this… not good?” he asked diffidently.

“I don’t mind.” 

He meant it. He used to mind, until Sherlock had explained his fascination with the scar, describing it as the vestige of the event that had brought John back to London, and straight into Sherlock’s path. Seen in that light, it didn’t seem quite so ugly anymore.

“Although,” he added, teasing, “I am a little disappointed.”

Sherlock pulled his hand off John at once, as though burned.

“Disappointed,” John continued, “that you consistently reach for the part of me that can’t really feel much at all when there are other bits that would respond to your touch in much more interesting ways.”

In the near darkness, John could see Sherlock’s expression relax a little.

“Well, _you_ ’re hardly touching any of _my_ … bits.”

It was the invitation John had been waiting for. His hand, which had fallen from Sherlock’s face to allow him to look at John’s shoulder better, returned there, then slid to the back of his neck to pull gently until his mouth met John’s. At the same time, John erased the distance between them, throwing a leg over Sherlock’s so that their bodies were flush against each other, their hardening pricks trapped together between them.

Every first kiss so far had been different, and this one was no exception. Sherlock responded at once, pressing back against John and parting his lips when John’s tongue requested entrance, but he was unusually subdued, following John’s lead rather than taking the initiative, almost passive when John arched against him so that their cocks slid against each other. And while John didn’t mind being at the wheel – he didn’t mind at all, actually – he thought he knew what was going on here. 

Pulling back, John pressed his forehead to Sherlock’s.

“You,” he said with a long-suffering sigh, “are exhausted. And too stubborn to admit it when it’s taking all you have just to remain awake.”

Sherlock’s slow blink was an answer in itself, even when he gave a weak protest. “I am not. What I am is aroused and very keen for you to do something about it.”

John shook his head. “Sherlock,” he started, but lost his voice when Sherlock’s hand suddenly wrapped around his cock. His hips jerked forward of their own accord, pushing his length through the ring formed by Sherlock’s fingers. The tip of his cock, slick with precome, painted a wet line against Sherlock’s abdomen.

“Neither of us is going to find sleep any time soon like this,” Sherlock said very low, nuzzling John’s neck. “And I’d very much like to have you inside me.”

Whatever reservations John had vanished when Sherlock squeezed his prick gently, sending tendrils of want to wrap around his balls.

“So what you’re saying is, you want me to do all the work, huh?”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at him. “Well, as you pointed out, I _am_ exhausted. But if that’s too much of a hardship…”

Another squeeze of his fingers and John had to pull away before the point became moot.

“Demanding bastard,” he muttered, but his shaky voice rather ruined the effect.

He tried to get a grip on himself while retrieving the lube from the night table. Turning back to Sherlock, he had to ask, “Are you sure? We could just—”

“Quite sure,” Sherlock cut in. His next words, however, hesitated ever so slightly, catching in his throat. “How do you want me?”

John’s self-control threatened to slip again.

“Hands and knees,” he demanded, more roughly than he meant to, and drew the covers off Sherlock, revealing his hardened cock.

A shudder traversed Sherlock’s body as he rolled over and pushed himself to his knees before resting his head on his folded arms. Before he even uncapped the lube, John couldn’t resist running a gentle hand over the lovely arse just waiting for him. Sherlock pushed back against his hand with a quiet, whiny sound.

“Impatient?” John asked, finally slicking his fingers. “Of course you’re impatient. When are you not?”

Any other night, John would have dragged things out just to hear more of these pretty little moans, but it was already long past Sherlock’s bedtime.

And that wasn’t an excuse; not at all.

As he teased Sherlock open, as he stretched him, slicked him, each slide of his fingers accompanied by more encouraging noises from Sherlock, John made a point not to touch his prostate, so that when he finally knelt behind Sherlock, pushed in and took his first tentative thrust, the brush of his cock against the small nub all but sent a jolt through Sherlock. He gasped John’s name as his body jerked, though it was hard to tell if he was trying to press back to get more of the contact, or pull away because it was too much. John held him in place, his hands tight on Sherlock’s hips.

“I usually like to take my time,” he said, timing each word with a thrust, “but tonight I think hard and fast will work fine. Objections?”

Sherlock’s answering moan did not sound like an objection at all.

True to his words, John established a fast pace, and before long Sherlock extended a hand to brace himself against the headboard as John thrust into him with fast, deliberate motions. Every time John pressed into his body again, a quiet “John” passed Sherlock’s lips; every time John pulled back, Sherlock’s body tried to follow, as though to keep him in.

John’s teeth were biting down into his bottom lip, a desperate effort to hold on to his control, but he could feel it start to slip away already. Sliding his hands higher on Sherlock’s torso, he pulled him up until Sherlock was kneeling up, too, his back arched, his head lolling back to rest onto John’s shoulder.

“God, look at you,” John gasped, one hand splayed over Sherlock’s chest and the other wrapped around his cock, moving to the same rhythm as the quick, shallow upward thrusts of his cock. “So bloody gorgeous.”

Sherlock all but keened. John knew that noise, knew how close Sherlock was, knew how to push him to the other side.

“I love you.” He pressed the words to Sherlock’s shoulder like kisses. “I love you, Sherlock Holmes.”

One last thrust, one last pull of his hand, and Sherlock was shuddering against him, around him, warm wetness filling John’s hand, and John, as always, was all too happy to follow where Sherlock led.

For a little while, they remained as they were, panting together, their bodies molded as though they were one. As John’s heartbeat returned to its normal pace, he kissed the nape of Sherlock’s neck before easing him down to the bed. Sherlock curled up onto his side at once, his eyes already closed. Asleep, John thought, or at the very least well on his way. He wanted nothing more than to join him, but he managed to stand, picking up Sherlock’s discarded towel on his way to the bathroom. He cleaned up before bringing a wet flannel back to the bedroom and running it gently over Sherlock’s cock, his belly and arse. Sherlock never so much as twitched. But when John turned off the light and slipped into bed, curling behind him, a murmur escaped him.

“Love you too, John Watson.”


	19. June 7th to 20th - Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With my apologies for the timeline discrepancies in the previous chapter. Hopefully it's fixed now.
> 
> Also a quick note - this chapter is not meant to show every moment sherlock spent in the hospital, just a few of them.

Sherlock wakes up. Or does he? His head feels heavy, too heavy to lift, just like his eyelids. He’s not aware of much more than this: there is a hand curled up around his own, holding it as carefully as though it were a frightened bird. He doesn’t know whose hand it is, but he knows whom he’d like it to belong to. He drifts back into sleep with John’s name on his lips.

*

Sherlock wakes to the sound of John’s voice. It drifts through his sleepy mind, meaningless, soothing sounds, their rhythm as regular as a heartbeat, as regular as that beeping sound in the background.

Little by little the sounds become syllables, then words, then sentences. A book, Sherlock understands at last. John is reading a book aloud. Some kind of mystery, maybe.

With great, great effort, Sherlock opens his eyes, and there is John, sitting by his… bed? Hospital bed? Why is Sherlock in the hospital?

His eyes close again before he can think of asking the question aloud, before John notices they even opened.

*

Sherlock wakes up, but though he is awake, he has all the pains in the world opening his eyes. As he struggles to blink, he becomes aware of the mask fastened over his mouth and nose, of the oxygen it brings him.

Hospital, he finally realizes, and it explains the quiet beeping and buzzing that fills the room, and the slight discomfort in his arm; IV drip, he sees when his vision clears at last.

His other arm is held down, and for a second he thinks – fears – he’s restrained and bound to the bed, the way he was, long ago, after an unfortunate dosage miscalculation.

But no. It’s not restraints that hold him down, but the gentle weight of John’s head, laid against his arm and side as he sleeps, hunched forward in a hospital chair.

Sherlock wants to say his name, wake him up, ask him…

But already sleep is claiming him again.

*

Sherlock wakes up. His head is pounding. He doesn’t drink all that often, doesn’t like the way alcohol dulls his mind, but when he indulges too much, this is what the aftermath feels like.

And he must have indulged quite a lot, actually, because he doesn’t even remember drinking at all.

Groaning lightly, he tries to sit up, but his body feels weak, too much so to do what he wants. Which is about the point when he realizes he’s not in his own bed. And there’s an oxygen mask over his face. And an IV attached to his arm. And two concerned men standing on either side of his hospital bed.

Mycroft looks rumpled, though in that way of his that only he can manage. To an outside eye, he looks perfectly respectable in his shirt and waistcoat. But there are wrinkles on the sides of the waistcoat, and his shirt sleeves are rolled up. He’s been wearing those clothes at least twenty four hours, maybe more. The dark circles under his eyes hint that he’s been awake far longer than that.

Opposite him, John looks even more tired, with facial hair darkening his cheeks. Eyes wide, he takes Sherlock’s hand and squeezes it lightly.

“Hey. Sherlock? You awake?”

Sherlock would like to speak, but his throat is parched and no sound comes out. He gives a slow, deliberate blink, and John’s face breaks into a smile. 

“Oh, good. That’s good. Welcome back.”

“I’ll get a doctor,” Mycroft says, but Sherlock barely notices.

“Are you in pain?” John asks next, his hand a little tighter around Sherlock’s.

Sherlock thinks about that one before answering. His head hurts, yes, but is it worth mentioning? It’s just a headache. Before he can try to shake his head, John amends his question.

“Your head,” he says. “Does your head still hurt?”

Well, since he’s asking… Sherlock gives another slow, deliberate blink. But right as his eyes open, they insist on closing again.

“Sherlock? Look at me. Stay with me. Sherlock.”

 _Not going anywhere,_ he wants to say. _Not ever again._

But words are beyond him, and darkness wraps around him once more.

*

Sherlock wakes up in a dimly lit room he identifies at once. Hospital room.

He frowns at the ceiling, trying to figure out what he did to end up in the hospital when a voice intrudes on his thoughts.

“Sherlock?”

He turns his head on the pillow toward John, who is pushing himself out of a chair with a quiet groan. Sherlock tries to say his name, but what comes out is a rather frightening croaking sound.

“Here,” John says, picking up a glass from a nearby table. “Drink a bit. It should soothe your throat.”

He slides a hand to the back of Sherlock’s head and helps him up a little as he brings the glass to his lips. Sherlock takes a sip. The first mouthful hurts as though he’s swallowing crushed glass, but the second one is much, much better.

When John pulls the glass away and lets Sherlock’s head rest back down on the pillow, Sherlock tries to speak again.

“John.”

John smiles at him. “Hey. How are you feeling?”

Sherlock tries to shrug, but his body barely moves, as though caught in molasses. “Groggy,” he mutters. “What happened?”

John’s smile fades to a thin line. “You had encephalitis. You were in a coma for five days. Gave us quite a fright.”

When Sherlock frowns, he adds, “But you’re going to be fine, now. Just a few days of rest and you’ll be ready to go home.”

Speaking is hard, so Sherlock just nods.

“Let me get your doctor,” John says. “I’ll be right back.”

Sherlock closes his eyes to wait for him to come back.

*

Sherlock wakes to the sound of his name. John is there, next to his bed – but no, that’s not his bed. Where is… Hospital, judging from the white-bloused woman at John’s side.

“There you are,” John says, the line of worry on his forehead smoothing out. He turns to the woman as she leans over Sherlock, a pen light in her hand.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Holmes? Any pain? Discomfort?”

He blinks repeatedly when she shines the light in his eyes.

“No pain. Why am I here?”

The doctor explains. Next to her, John is frowning, worry inscribed on every line of his face.

*

Sherlock wakes, and the two voices that intruded on his sleep fade at once.

He blinks several times, taking in the hospital room, the IV attached to his arm, John and Mycroft standing by the door, where they were talking quietly. They approach together, and before Sherlock can ask one of the dozen questions on the tip of his tongue, John asks in a gentle tone, “Sherlock, do you know why you’re here?”

Sherlock licks his lips. They feel dry; how long has he been here?

He shakes his head. “I… I’m not sure.”

John and Mycroft exchange consternated glances.

“Try to remember,” Mycroft says. “Think. You know the answer. It’ll come back to you.”

Frowning at him, Sherlock thinks hard, sifting through his memories, but can only make an educated guess.

“Did I overdose?” he asks, his voice blank, his eyes remaining on Mycroft rather than peek at John.

Mycroft looks pained. “Are you using again?”

“No he’s not,” John says strongly before Sherlock can reply that he doesn’t remember getting high, but that’s hardly proof of anything. “His tox screen was negative. Sherlock, are you sure you don’t know? I told you why you’re in the hospital just a few hours ago. Try to remember, please.”

Sherlock shakes his head again. He really has no idea.

*

Sherlock wakes up in the hospital. John is there. He looks a lot worse than Sherlock feels. Before they can do more than exchange a few words, a doctor walks in. With a compassionate smile, she tells Sherlock he’s been in the hospital for two weeks. Tells him he had encephalitis, but that’s all but cleared up by now. Tells him he’s been having some memory issues and she’d like to do some tests.

Three hours later, Sherlock has had a CAT scan and a MRI. He still remembers the three words she gave him when she started the tests. He remembers every moment of his life until the headache that was apparently the first encephalitis symptom – and nothing since until he woke up.

John, who has been nearby during all these tests, is looking more and more worried.

“I’m afraid we’re looking at an anterograde amnesia diagnosis,” the doctor says when they’re back in his room. “It means—”

“I know what it means,” Sherlock cuts in. “Is it permanent?”

She looks taken aback for a second but recovers quickly. “We can’t be completely sure yet, but with every day that passes without you remembering recent events it’s more and more likely that it’ll be permanent. I’m sorry to say the prognosis is not good at this point. Studies of people with your condition show no improvement of memory functions. There can be some muscle memory achieved through the repetition of tasks, but—”

“Your boyfriend cheats on you,” Sherlock says, lying down and closing his eyes. He’s heard enough.

Silence falls on the room until she says in a tight voice, “Mr. Holmes, that’s hardly—”

“The nurse that took me to the MRI room. He’s your boyfriend. Eight months at least. He’s cheating on you with another nurse. Redhead. Although I’m rather sure she doesn’t know about you, so I suppose I should say he’s cheating on both of you.”

A sharp intake of breath, a quiet, “Excuse me,” hurried steps out of the room. A sigh.

“Was that necessary?” John asks softly.

“My brain is fine,” Sherlock says, keeping his eyes shut tight. “I’m fine.”

Soft fingers curl around his hand and squeeze gently.

“Of course you are. You and your ridiculous brain are gonna be just fine. It’ll be okay, Sherlock.”

Sherlock takes in a shaky breath and nods. 

*

Sherlock wakes up in a hospital bed.

He’s alone.

He has no idea why he’s here, and no recollection of being taken to the hospital. He vaguely remembers a headache, the pounding in his skull suddenly debilitating after days of being nothing more than an annoyance. He takes stock of his body. No pain, no injury as far as he can figure out. An illness, then. But what kind?

The answer is right on the chart hanging at the foot of his bed. He flips through it, frowning more and more deeply as he takes in the information. Encephalitis, with neurological complications. Anterograde amnesia suspected, then confirmed. No progress or improvement in the past week, which, a note says, hints that the condition is irreversible.

In the end, it’s four digits that make Sherlock glad he’s sitting, because he’s not sure he could stand right now.

20/06

Today’s date.

Eighteen days. He’s spent eighteen days in the hospital, almost three weeks, and doesn’t recall a single second of it all.

He’s still staring at the chart when a man walks in. Sherlock looks up, cataloguing details, barely even aware he’s doing it. Nurse. Late thirties but trying to appear younger. Recently broke up with long-time girlfriend. Another nurse, or maybe a doctor in the hospital. The dark look he gives Sherlock before schooling his features hints that Sherlock said or did something that displeased him during these eighteen days Sherlock can’t recall.

Eighteen days. Over four hundred hours. And nothing, nothing left of it all.

“You’re not supposed to look at that,” the nurse says, tugging the chart out of Sherlock’s hands and returning it to the foot of the bed. “And you should be lying down. You’re not going to be discharged until this afternoon, and until then you need to rest.”

As he speaks, he helps Sherlock recline, his words and expression suffering no protest. Sherlock is still too numb to object.

“Discharged?” he manages to say. “I’m going home?”

“This afternoon,” the nurse repeats. “Your brother said the car would be there at three. Now stay in bed. Your lunch’s on the way.”

With that, the man leaves. Sherlock scrunches his eyes tightly closed and tries with everything he has in him, with every last bit of the growing despair that fills him, to remember something, anything at all from the past eighteen days.

His very last memory, so tenuous it’s hard to grasp it, is of John laying a cool hand on Sherlock’s feverish forehead. John, who was a little concerned.

John who isn’t here.

But why would he be? He has a life outside of Sherlock. A job, a home, friends. A wife.

Why would he come and take Sherlock home? Mycroft will – or his people, at least. Where will that car take Sherlock? Home to Baker Street? No, Mycroft wouldn’t allow it, wouldn’t let Sherlock live alone if his condition is truly irreversible. To Mycroft’s house, maybe? God, that’d be hell, for both of them. To their parents’ house? They’re not equipped to deal with something like that. Besides, weren’t they supposed to be on one of their trips?

To a convalescence home, then. A place with nurses, locked doors, and patients who don’t have their entire mental faculties. A place where he’ll wake up, days after day, with no idea of who the people around him are, or why he’s there.

Sherlock’s stomach twists until he’s certain he’s going to be sick.

Taking deep gulps of air, he pushes himself out of bed. Clothes and a pair of shoes wait on a chair, no doubt for his upcoming discharge. He gets dressed quickly, and is still tugging his jacket on when he steps out of the room. Catching a glimpse of the surly nurse a few doors away, he turns the other way and strides confidently through the hallway as though he’s a visitor rather than patient. He pickpockets an actual visitor just before reaching the wide doors that open onto the emergency staircase. He doesn’t think and goes left; up. He has one of the stolen cigarettes at his lips long before he reaches the roof. He lights it with the cheap lighter that was crammed into the half empty pack and takes a deep drag, holding it until his lungs start burning and exhaling with his head thrown back, the smoke drifting up into the warm June air.

It’s been two years since he was up here. Looking to his far left, he can see the spot where Moriarty died, where he stood when he called John. He didn’t want to die, two years ago. He had too many things to do still to let Moriarty win. Too many unanswered questions, some of which are still unanswered.

And they’ll always be unanswered, won’t they?

One of the last things he remembers deciding is that he would tell John, and at least get this one answer, whatever it might be, even if it meant putting an end to their friendship.

One symptom of encephalitis is altered decision making.

He remembers that, remembers a dozen other things about encephalitis, about amnesia, but all of it is textbook knowledge. None of it is something he actually experienced.

He doesn’t remember whether he told John. He can’t have. He felt too wretched, that day. He wouldn’t have started the most important conversation he was ever going to have with John when his head felt like it was splitting open.

Would he?

He paces back and forth, smokes two more cigarettes, finally sits down on the roof with his back to the safety wall that goes around the building, all the while trying to force his brain to remember something recent.

Nothing.

When he deletes something in his mind palace, or when he simply forgets something unimportant, he can always tell something was there and is now gone. He doesn’t even have that awareness now. Those eighteen days might as well never have existed as far as he’s concerned. And today will disappear into the same black hole. And tomorrow. And the day after that. Like an unending loop.

What’s the point of going on?

Forgetting from day to day, he won’t be able to solve cases anymore. Or run experiments. The image in the mirror will grow older, but he won’t understand why. He’ll go out thinking it’s early June and find himself in the middle of winter, London – or wherever Mycroft sends him – blanketed by snow. And he’ll never learn anything new about John, will never catalogue another kind of smile, or another tidbit of his past, revealed in passing. He won’t be able to tell whether the state of John’s marriage continues to deteriorate, won’t know to offer whatever comfort he’s capable of, won’t be able to add up clues until the balance tips again to ‘tell him’ or ‘keep it to yourself’, this time without a burgeoning illness altering his thought process.

Is it living when there is no progress, no change, just eternal stagnation? It would be no better than being in a vegetative state, and Sherlock long ago told Mycroft what to do if—

“I can’t believe it.”

The exasperated words break Sherlock’s train of thought, but it’s the voice, that voice he knows so well, that causes him to startle and hit the back of his head against the wall behind him. Blinking owlishly, he watches John come closer, and can’t find anything to say other than a quiet, “John.”

“Ten minutes,” John says, shaking his head as he stops in front of Sherlock. “I leave you alone for ten minutes to find something actually edible and you disappear right under everyone’s nose, climb on this damn roof and try to poison yourself. Ten bloody minutes, Sherlock.”

He holds his hand out. Sherlock looks at it, then at John again before he grinds what’s left of his cigarette against the wall and takes John’s hand. John helps him back to his feet. His palm is damp; he was afraid.

“How did you find me?”

John snorts quietly. “I asked myself what’s the last place I’d like you to be and tried that first.”

“I didn’t know,” Sherlock says, his throat so tight that the words are little more than a whisper. “I woke up and I was alone. I didn’t know you were there.”

John’s features soften a little. “You fell asleep?” he says with a quiet sigh. “So you don’t know why you’re here?”

“I read my chart. The nurse said I’m being discharged today.”

John nods. “The doctor wanted to see you one last time before we go home.”

Three words. That’s all it takes for the knot in Sherlock’s chest to loosen.

_We go home._

There are still a hundred, a thousand things he doesn’t know, but it’s okay. John will tell him.

John will be there.

Isn’t he always?


	20. November 15th - John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting one more, very short bit at the same time as I post this, more epilogue than true chapter.

It would always be the joy in Sherlock’s eyes that undid John. 

Whenever Sherlock heard those words, those three ridiculous little words that he himself had so much trouble saying, his eyes seemed a little clearer, a little brighter. He always looked like, at the same time, he couldn’t believe John, and wanted nothing more than to believe him.

His mouth curved into a smile against John’s lips and he started to push a little harder into the kiss, his hand resting, ever so tentatively, on John’s knee. John let it last a second longer before he pulled back, shaking his head ruefully.

“Oh, no you don’t,” he said with a slight smile. “I fell for it last night but now I can actually think straight.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows arched up, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “Straight? Are you sure about that?”

John snorted. He dropped his hand from Sherlock’s face and covered the fingers rubbing lightly against his bare knee. “Very funny. But I’m not joking. You’re going back to bed. And alone.”

Sherlock’s almost-smile turned at once into a pout. “I’m not—”

“Tired,” John cut in, softening the interruption by squeezing Sherlock’s hand. “Of course you’re not. You never are. But three hours of sleep after being awake for five days? Not good. And nowhere near enough.”

It wasn’t that Sherlock’s mulish expression was a surprise, really. By now, John knew quite well that Sherlock regarded sleep as a waste of time. In fact, that wasn’t even anything new; he’d already thought so before June. But John knew what argument was rising to Sherlock’s lips – and knew how convincing he could be, too, if John let himself falter even for a second.

“Sherlock, please,” he said preemptively. “Don’t you trust me?”

It was a low blow, and he knew it. Sherlock did trust him – had trusted him with his life, more than once. But how else could John impress on him that this _was_ , in the end, a matter of life and death? Sleep deprivation weakened the body; as a doctor, John knew that quite well. He only justified to himself allowing Sherlock several days without sleep with the knowledge that, for Sherlock, this was what had always passed as ‘normal’, and not a change brought by his illness. Normal pattern or not, though, he needed to play catch up on his sleep every few days.

“But if I go to sleep now,” Sherlock protested right on cue, “I’ll forget this.” His hand turned under John’s so that they were palm to palm, their fingers entwining easily. “Everything I read. Everything you just told me. I’ll have to learn it all over again.”

John’s throat was threatening to tighten, but he refused to let it. Every word was true, of course, but it was also true that Sherlock was much too good at manipulating him.

“And you find it difficult to learn things?” he teased. “Since when?”

Sherlock’s expression turned intense, the way it usually did at crime scenes when he was observing something new and unexpected, or whenever he tried to commit something to memory. What could be so important on John’s face that he wanted to remember it, John had no idea, though it did send a jolt down his spine. Being the object of such attention was always thrilling. As such, he didn’t have it in him to resist when Sherlock pushed forward, his forehead nudging John’s shoulder until John let himself fall back, his head coming to lie against the armrest of the sofa. 

Sherlock followed the movement, cautiously draping himself over John’s body, his cheek resting on John’s chest but his body tense as though he expected to be bucked off. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders and felt him relax against him. This was nice, he thought as he carded his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. Not the kind of rest Sherlock needed, but for a little while it would be all right. No longer than a little while, though.

“You’ll have to explain it all again,” Sherlock said after a moment. “Isn’t that… taxing?”

He’d never worried about that before they’d become a couple. Or at least, he’d never mentioned it. Had he worried but without saying anything? Too late to ask, now.

“It’s okay,” John said softly. “I got used to it. I’d even say I got pretty good at it.”

Sherlock’s answer was a quiet, “Hmm.”

A rather skeptical ‘Hmm’, too.

“What?” John asked, frowning down at Sherlock.

“Nothing.” A pause, and Sherlock added, “You’re not very good at it actually.”

John snorted and pulled lightly on a curl of hair. “Are you upset right now? No, you’re not. You woke up a couple of hours ago and you had your world turned upside down, but you’re calm and relaxed. But you used to be upset when this all started, before I helped you figure out how to make it easier on you. So yeah, I _am_ pretty good at it. Thanks ever so.”

Sherlock made that annoying little noise again. “You left out more than you explained.”

“I told you,” John said with a sigh. “You ask questions, I answer.”

Sherlock pushed himself up, kneeling over John’s legs. “All right. When did I get the third line tattooed? And why? It’s different from the other two. Second person rather than first, more recent, and the answering line on your chest is only marker.”

Although John’s chest was covered, Sherlock’s gaze drifted to it; without thinking, John touched the spot where the words hid behind terrycloth, a gesture he’d picked up from watching Sherlock unconsciously do the same.

“And it’s not going to be anything more than marker for me,” he said dryly, “because that line isn’t going to stay on your chest. You agreed to have something else tattooed over it to cover it up.”

Sherlock frowned at that. “I did? Why?”

“Because you promised you’d only get tattoos of important things and that’s not even _true_. I’m not going to leave.”

Of all the things John had to repeat so often, this one might have been the most ‘taxing’, as Sherlock put it, for the simple fact that it was the one Sherlock seemed to doubt the most. Even now, he continued to frown, unconvinced.

“So why did I think it was necessary to get this written on myself?” he asked.

John rolled his eyes and sad up, dislodging Sherlock from his legs. “Because you’re a prat, that’s why.”

Sherlock didn’t say a word, but he was clearly still waiting for an answer. John swallowed a sigh.

“We argued,” he said quietly. “It wasn’t anything important but I went out. I needed some fresh air. And you decided that meant I’d leave you.”

“What did we argue about?” Sherlock asked at once, like John had known he would.

“Like I said, it wasn’t important.”

“It must have felt important enough to me if I decided to get a tattoo because of it.” Sherlock sounded on edge, all of a sudden. Not upset, not yet, but definitely unsettled. “Your definition of ‘important’ and mine are clearly not the same. Maybe—”

Pressing a finger to Sherlock’s lips, John leaned in close. “First line,” he said quietly. “Your chest or mine, doesn’t matter. That’s the important thing. I’m not going anywhere. Not because of your illness, and not because you’re trying to be ‘better’, whatever that means. I’m not going anywhere because I love you. Because I lost you once before and it nearly killed me. Okay?”

When Sherlock nodded, John slid his hand to the back of Sherlock’s head and drew him forward, ever so gently. Sherlock came easily, licking his lips just a second before they touched John’s. The kiss was as sweet as the one from moments before, and just as brief.

“You do need to get some sleep,” John reminded Sherlock – and himself.

“But there’s so much I don’t know,” Sherlock said, his pleading tone jarring, “so much I forgot, and you’re not giving me all the answers. You don’t even have all of them.”

Now that was something new. “What do you mean?” John asked.

“I mean, if you don’t allow me to write about us, how can I remember…” Sherlock waved his hands. “I don’t know. The way you look when I say those words to you.”

John opened his mouth to reply, but couldn’t find words immediately, struck both by what Sherlock had just said at the look in his eyes, an odd mix of shyness and defiance, as though he were daring John to tease him about it.

Clearing his throat, John said very low, “Well you could just say it again to know that.”

Sherlock shook his head, though John doubted it was about what he’d just said.

“What about that promise you say I made about the tattoos?” he asked, his words coming out faster again as his agitation returned. “What about the reason I got that third line? I’m missing half of the story. I want to know everything. I _need_ to know everything.”

As he finished, he turned his head to the coffee table. John followed his gaze toward the diary.

“You want to write it in there,” he said warily.

It had been one of the few requests he had made of Sherlock that they remove from the diary whatever Sherlock had already written about him, and even now, even after hearing Sherlock’s new arguments, he didn’t think he’d been wrong

“The diary seems like a good way for me to preserve information,” Sherlock insisted.

“What if you put things in there as wrong as this?” John asked, brushing a fingertip to the third line peeking under Sherlock’s half-open dressing gown. “That’s not worth preserving.”

“You’ll tell me if I’m wrong.” Sherlock pressed his hand over John’s on his chest. “Like you told me about this.”

“Can’t. I don’t read your diary.”

Sherlock tilted his head to one side, narrowing his eyes as he asked, “Never?”

“Never,” John confirmed. “You asked me not to. I promised.”

“I don’t remember that promise either. Something else I’m missing. Do you understand how frustrating it is?”

John understood, yes. He’d watched Sherlock be frustrated by lack of information before he’d started writing the diary. It was the same frustration he could see in him now, had seen in the past few weeks, though without realizing the extent of it. The only difference was that, before, he’d wanted more information about everything in his life; now, he wanted to know more about his relationship with John. And while John had tried his best to be Sherlock’s memory, Sherlock was right: there were things John simply didn’t know, and things he didn’t believe Sherlock needed to know – things they might disagree about, but did John have the right to decide for Sherlock?

“How about…” He looked at the diary again, remembering it in Mycroft’s hands. “How about a second diary. One we’d both read.”

One they’d keep in the bedroom, out of sight of intrusive visitors.

“And both write in,” Sherlock said, practically beaming. “It’s our story after all.”

 _Our story_. That, if anything, sealed it for John.

“All right. We can try that.” Standing from the sofa, John held his hand out to Sherlock and helped him to his feet. “But only after you’ve had another few hours of sleep.”

It was a measure of how tired Sherlock had to be that he didn’t protest again and let John lead him toward the bedroom.

“You could start writing while I sleep,” he said instead.

“If it’ll get you in bed without argument, then all right, I’ll do that.”

“What would it take to get _you_ in bed?”

John laughed as he opened the bedroom door. “You know, before September, I’d never have guessed you were that interested in sex.”

“I’m not,” Sherlock said, shrugging out of his dressing gown. “I’m interested in you. I want to know what you look like when your brain short-circuits from pleasure.”

Delivered as Sherlock slipped into bed, the words were an invitation, the kind John was always careful to obtain before anything happened between them. Today, though, it wasn’t enough, not when balanced against the deep shadows under Sherlock’s eyes.

“You will know,” he said, drawing the sheet over Sherlock before sitting on the edge of the bed. “But only after you’ve had a good twelve hours of sleep.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Twelve hours? I never sleep that long.”

“When you need the sleep, you do.” John brushed Sherlock’s hair from his forehead. “And you very badly need the sleep.”

“But—”

“I love you,” John cut in softly. “And I’ll still love you when you wake up. And I get to see your face when you hear it again like it’s brand new.”

Sherlock’s eyes closed even as he gave an odd little smile.

“What do I look like?” he mumbled.

John’s fingers ran over Sherlock’s hair again. “Like you’ve just solved a really good case.”

“Locked room murder, at least.”

John chuckled. “If you say so.”

“Maybe even a double murder. Two separate locked rooms inside a locked house. Mmm yes nice...”

“Always so romantic,” John murmured as he brushed a kiss to Sherlock’s brow, but Sherlock looked like he’d already drifted into sleep.

Leaving him was always hard, but John reminded to himself, yet again, that he needed some rest, and left the room. In the sitting room, he looked for a few moments through the box in which Sherlock had found a notebook months earlier, but in the end he went out, dropping by to ask Mrs. Hudson to keep an ear on Sherlock. Between her vigilance, the pieces of paper taped to the doors asking Sherlock not to go out if he’d just woken up, and the simple fact that Sherlock was exhausted, John was fairly certain he had enough time for a full shopping trip, and indeed when he came back and peeked in, Sherlock was still in bed, still deeply asleep.

John put the groceries away before sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of tea, a new notebook and a pen. He thought for a few moments before putting the pen to the first line of the first page.

_You asked me before when that first line became true, and I couldn’t answer you. I’ve been thinking about it, trying to figure it out, and I still don’t know. I’ve felt this way for as long as I’ve known you. Which is stupid, because who falls in love with a stranger just because he can tell from a glance you’re an invalidated soldier with a psychosomatic limp? Maybe that’s why I didn’t see it for what it was. Or maybe your declaration that you were married to your work did the trick. Either way, I didn’t recognize it in myself, not for all the time we lived together, and not even after, when I grieved the way one grieves the death of a loved one, not a good friend. Others saw it, but not me. Mary saw it, I suppose. It’d explain why she was always so wary of you, why she thought I’d go back to you sooner or later. I wouldn’t have cheated on her, that’s not who I am, but when she first said the word separation, I didn’t argue._

Lifting the pen off the page, John reread what he’d written so far. He wasn’t sure that was what Sherlock wanted from a new diary, and it’d be easy to tear off the page and start over, but there was a reason why John’s thoughts had taken this path, and he could see where the path led.

Not what Sherlock wanted, maybe; but possibly what he needed.

_I didn’t mean to talk about her. I meant to talk about us. But now that I’ve written this, I wonder – is this why you fear so much that I’ll leave you? Because you know I left my wife of a few months to be with someone else? It must make me look like a very fickle person. But you know me better than that. I believed in you when everything pointed to you being a fraud, when you yourself claimed you’d lied to me. I hope you can believe me in return when I say this: I love you, and I’m not going anywhere. Not without you._


	21. June 2nd - Sherlock

The hardest part is waiting for John to wake up. He can get awfully stroppy when Sherlock cuts his sleep short – or at least, that’s what Sherlock wrote in their book. John penned in an answer, pointing out that not everyone has frighteningly abnormal sleep patterns. Sherlock answered that there’s nothing frightening about it… and that conversation continued for a full two pages over several weeks.

Sherlock paces as he waits, picking up his violin and setting it down again without playing, practically bouncing in excitement.

Finally, _finally_ John wakes up, water running in the bathroom announcing that fact. Sherlock sets the kettle to boil – the book says John likes it when Sherlock makes tea for him – but John comes out before the kettle has clicked shut, and Sherlock can’t bear to wait a second longer. 

“What’s going on?” John asks, yawning, as Sherlock drags him to the sitting room. “Can you give me two minutes—”

“I gave you almost eight hours. I was waiting for June second and it’s been June second for seven hours and thirty-seven minutes. Here. Sit down.”

John looks pained as he sits on the sofa. “We don’t usually celebrate June second, you know,” he says with a sad smile.

Sherlock doesn’t reply and presses into John’s hands a couple of pages he printed from an online medical journal. John looks at Sherlock sitting next to him, then at the pages, his eyes running briefly over them before he gives a short nod.

“I’ve read this before,” he says. “It’s one of the longest and most detailed study of a patient with anterograde amnesia.”

“So you know about the maze,” Sherlock says, barely suppressing his grin. “And how—”

“The patient solved it progressively faster, even though he had no memory of solving it previously, yes. It’s the same principle as muscle memory. It’s why you can learn new pieces on the violin and get better at them over a few—”

“Ask me about my mind palace,” Sherlock cuts in, smiling widely.

Something shifts in John’s expression, minute but still noticeable. Not hope; not yet. The hope that hope is possible, maybe.

“Tell me about your mind palace,” he asks quietly.

“Ask me about the music room,” Sherlock says, his smile widening a little more.

“Tell me about the music room.”

“Ask me what was on the piano.”

“What was on the piano?”

“Before the illness? Nothing. There was nothing on the piano.”

John blinks, licks his lips, and asks in a murmur, “What’s on the piano now?”

It took a long, long time. A text file on Sherlock’s phone lists the first day Sherlock tried to create the memory cues, along with all the days after that when he found nothing on the piano and tried again, the first day when something – a shadow more than anything else – appeared on the piano, and all the small steps after that until now.

It’s not a cure, not even a solution because Sherlock didn’t know it was there, wouldn’t have known to look for it if his phone hadn’t told him to check.

But it is… something. Progress. The proof that Sherlock’s brain might be trained to remember in new ways – or not so new; he’s been using the method of loci for more than half his life, after all.

“This is on the piano,” he says, pointing at his arm, then at the two lines on his chest, framed by tattoos representing the chemicals associated with love. “And this. Three new memo—”

He can’t finish, not with John’s mouth pressing hard against his.

It’s okay. They can talk about it later. They have all the time in the world. It’s not like either of them is going anywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are. Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed the story, and would be happy to know what you thought, either here or on [tumblr](http://prettyvk.tumblr.com/).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Ink Your Name Across My Heart by prettyvk](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2037342) by [AxeMeAboutAxinomancy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AxeMeAboutAxinomancy/pseuds/AxeMeAboutAxinomancy)




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